


Terok Northside

by GulJeri



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: DD9, Deep Dish 9, Deep Dish Nine, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2018-10-06 23:01:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10346547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GulJeri/pseuds/GulJeri
Summary: Most days Damar hates his job as assistant manager at Terok Northside Pizza. Most days he hates his life too. His only comforts are to go home and have a drink while he hangs out in his garage and admires his sexy car. To top it off a messy divorce and little time to spend with his son doesn't make it any better. But things are about to change since Dominions has bought out the chain. There's more to this company than pizza.Damar will find himself in the midst of shady dealings, falling for a sexy DEA informant, and trying to deal with his alcohol problem, all while making sure he doesn't kill Rugal for coming to work stoned, or get himself fired for stuffing Weyoun into an oven. But most of all Damar will find himself questioning his allegiance: Will he continue to play the faithful lackey to the wishes of the corporate office, or will he strike out to clean up the fallen reputation of the store, and bring it back to what it had stood for in the beginning: Family, community, and meh... decent food.This story is a gift for LadyVean.





	1. Shoddy Customer Service

Damar grumbled to himself as he fitted the visor over his slick black hair. As management, the right hand of Dukat, he didn't have to wear the full Terok Northside Pizza uniform under normal circumstances. But tonight Damar felt as though he was stepping back into the dusty past of his resume down to the lowest line when he had first started out in food service. He had been a rowdy senior in high school, king jock of the football team, and too handsome for his own good. He had needed the part-time job as a distraction from getting into trouble with girls, partying, and underage drinking. It hadn't really done the trick, but the job had gotten him through most of college, at least until his frat-boy partying had gotten the best of him and he'd had to drop out. He had been intelligent, fully capable of being more than a middle-aged man in lower management at a pizza store, but here he was.

Tonight a large portion of his staff had called off for the night and the store was busy. The phone was ringing off the hook with orders, and the lobby was full too. The problem was that there were no delivery drivers and that was going to make things very difficult. He wanted to take Ziyal and Rugal from up front and send one of them out. But the front was so busy it would be quicker to just go out and deliver the pizza's himself. Damar sighed. It was a bad night for half of the store employees to come down with stomach flu.

Damar loaded pizza boxes into their insulated carrier to keep them warm and carried them to the parking lot. His shoulders slumped when his gaze fell upon his scooter. It was more than embarrassing but he'd gotten one too many DUI's and now his prized possession, his baby, the only really nice thing he owned, was sitting in his garage at home collecting more dust than the envelopes piled on the kitchen table that held his credit card statements. His house may have been shitty, and falling apart, and he may have had to grimace when drinking his cheap booze, and the coat he was wearing was probably decades old—but his car was a dream. The older model Porsche was out of his league but he felt like a sex god when he was behind the wheel. He had restored it himself in a labor of love and the day anyone so much as breathed on it wrong would be the day that he went away for murder. He had caught Rugal in the parking lot one day snapping a photo of Ziyal sitting on the shiny red hood and had nearly murdered her with a pizza slicer. Had her father not been visiting the store that day things probably would have gone far worse than they had. Crushing the screen of Rugal's I-Phone beneath his boot had not been revenge enough. 

His baby certainly would have been his friend this night, though he would have had to have scrounged up a blanket to lay over the leather seats. Greasy pizza boxes would not dare to touch that pristine interior. 

Damar narrowed his eyes at the scooter. Having to ride the pathetic little thing instead of sliding into the drivers seat of his beloved car made him feel as though he'd been castrated. He adjusted his visor with purpose, and marched forward, deciding he needed to just get the pizzas to their recipients and get the dreaded task out of the way. He had brought out some bungee cords that he'd found in the utility closet and he used them to secure the pizza to the back of the scooter. Once he was satisfied the boxes weren't going to be roadkill once he got going, he straddled the vinyl seat.

_Pretend it's a beautiful Harley with a cherry red gas tank, and a sexy pinup girl painted on the side of the tank too. Yeah, and her tits are falling out of a top that doesn't have enough buttons. ___

Damar's dreams were dashed when he started the scooter and it sounded so pathetic. Certainly not the roar of a motorcycle that would vibrate between his legs as he rode it like a beast. 

_I need a leather jacket,_ Damar thought to himself. _I bet Dukat has one... with studs down the shoulders._

But Damar did not have a leather jacket, just a thin, faded, canvas jacket, a visor with hair grease on the inside of the band, and a scooter full of pizza and bad life choices.

-x-

The last pizza. Damar couldn't wait to deliver it, go back to the restaurant, and clock out early. He needed to be there as busy as it was especially with them being so short-staffed but he didn't care. He was going to go home. He had been chased by a dog, kissed by a stoned guy who had been overly grateful for his five pizza boxes, and attacked by a cat that had pounced on him from the balcony of an upstairs apartment. It had yowled and screamed like a furry demon from hell and dug its evil mongrel claws into his forehead. Now there were bloody scrapes right in the middle and Damar was half convinced that thing had given him fleas. To top it off a young guy in a sports car had passed him on the road and his buddy had leaned out the passengers window and tossed a cup of warm soda onto him. They had sped away laughing leaving the smell of hot rubber and humiliation in their wake.

Damar pulled his scooter up to the curb and lifted the last pizza from the back. 

It was dark now but Damar was keeping his eyes peeled for anything that might scurry out of the bushes or jump down from the roof and attack him. It certainly hadn't been his night and he wouldn't be at all surprised if a spaceship full of alien lizards abducted him. In fact, that might be a welcome change to his daily life. He trudged up the steps with a snort and rapped his knuckles on the violet painted door. 

After a few moments the door opened. A slight man emerged and looked Damar over as though he was judging him very harshly. Damar shifted uncomfortably as the large, purplish, eyes blinked at him, and finally fell upon his name tag.

“Manager: Corat Damar,” the little man drew the words out in a way that was almost like crooning, and somehow sweet on the top, but full of superiority beneath. “Terok Northside Pizza.”

“Yup, that's right,” Damar said. He opened the insulated outer packaging and handed the box of pizza to the man. “Twenty-one-oh-five,” Damar barked.

The man clicked his tongue in a way that grated against Damar's nerves. His lips pulled back into a grimace.

“What shoddy customer service,” the man drawled, “certainly things will be changing under the new ownership.”

Damar frowned.

“New ownership? What are you talking about?”

“My superiors at Dominion's Pizza just signed the contract today to buy Terok Northside Pizza and add the location to our chain. Look at it this way: you'll be getting a brand new visor to wear with a much more fashionable logo.”

The man laughed. 

Damar pursed his lips.

“I don't wear this visor under normal circumstances,” he huffed, “and I don't deliver pizzas. Most of my staff is ill tonight. I'm just... doing what has to be done to keep the place afloat, and the customers... happy.”

“Are you?” the man asked, tilting his head slightly to regard Damar with those ever judging eyes.

“I am. Who are you anyway, and how do you know about this contract?” Damar demanded. There had been talk for awhile now that Dominion's might buy out Terok Northside, but Dukat had said nothing to him about it happening this soon. Damar was his right-hand man. He should have known this! He certainly shouldn't have had to hear it from some smug doe-eyed asshole on a porch step in the dark.

“I work for Dominion's,” the man said, “name's Weyoun. I'm sent to all the stores in the region to inspect for code violations, keep management informed on new advertising campaigns, and keep tabs on the bottom line. I'll be your... superior.”

Damar bristled at the way Weyoun wrapped his mouth around that last word, drawing it out in a way that was some how sensual, and also like nails dragged over a chalkboard. 

“I answer to Dukat,” Damar said.

“And Dukat answers to Dominion's,” Weyoun said, a slow smile stretching his thin lips.

“Thank you for the pizza, just put it on my tab,” Weyoun said, taking the box from Damar's hands.

“Wait a minute... I don't even get a tip for the trouble of putting up with you?” Damar growled.

“Oh, you'll need to get used to the trouble of putting up with me, Damar. But I think I do have a tip for you,” Weyoun leaned in closer and almost whispered, “don't use the pizza grease on your hair. It's tacky... literally, and metaphorically speaking. And...” Weyoun leaned forward and pressed his fingertip to sticky spot on Damar's cheek. 

Weyoun grimaced.

“Is that cola?”

Damar licked his lips, and pushed his chin out.

“Tastes like rootbeer.”

“It isn't at all flattering.”

Damar snarled and turned away from the irritating little man. He stomped down the steps and towards his scooter.

“Oh, is that your beautiful scooter?” Weyoun called from his porch.

Damar let the words, dripping with sarcasm, bounce off of his broad back. But he did flip his hand up and wave his middle finger over his head. This was probably not the best way to start a business relationship. But it was less aggressive than plotting the mans death.

“You'll need to grow a thicker skin if we're to have an amicable working relationship!” Weyoun called as Damar straddled his scooter.

Damar sneered.

“I'd have to grow scales.”

Damar started his scooter and rode off into the darkness. When he arrived back at the store he was greeted with fire engines and billowing smoke. His phone was vibrating wildly in his pocket and he pulled it out to see numerous texts from Dukat who was losing his mind over the fact that Ziyal had called him to tell him the store was on fire. The last one stated that Dukat was 'on his way and there would be consequences'. 

He could already imagine the earful he was going to get for this.

But at least he would have some time off work.


	2. Store Policy

Damar glanced up briefly at the menuboard in front of him. It wasn't the all too familiar Terok Northside menu. He was looking up at a Subway menu while waiting for the customer in front of him to order, and move on. When he approached the make-line he leaned forward a bit and peered at the young man behind the sneeze guard. He was short, and pudgy, with rosy cheeks and thick glasses. He had a pleasant smile and messy hair. He wasn't Damar's type but Damar enjoyed flirting anyway so he decided to lay it on. He knew he was a charming and attractive man, so why not flaunt it?

“I'd like a six-inch meatball sub on wheat bread. Extra sauce,” Damar smirked, “I like it messy.”

He was pleased when the young man blushed in return. He had obviously picked up on the subtle innuendo.

“Are you sure you wouldn't like a foot-long?” the young man asked, in a voice that was almost timid, but friendly enough. “It's the deal of the day.”

“Is it?” Damar said. He recognized that the young man was flirting back. It was all in good fun. “I'm not sure I could handle that today. Let's stick with the small one. It'll still fill me up,” Damar winked and patted his belly but judging by the deepening of the young mans' blush, they were both still thinking of things that didn't actually have to do with food. 

He watched with a grin as the young man built his sandwich.

By the time they got down to the register the young man was trying to sell Damar cookies. Damar glanced at his name tag.

“Thanks, Jeron, but I should probably watch my waistline,” Damar said. He pulled his wallet out and drew out one of his cards. His account was getting low. He had cashed his last unemployment check quite some time ago and was glad that the repairs on the pizza shop were completed and he was ready to go back to work. He hated the job, but he needed the income, and he didn't like to be idle even if his job did threaten to give him an aneurysm most days. 

Jeron glanced to Damar's waistline, or maybe a little lower.

“It looks fine to me,” the young man said.

“Hm... alright, maybe one then,” Damar said, and tapped a finger against the cookie case, “give me a macadamia. I like nuts, sometimes.”

“Me too,” Jeron said, as he used a pair of tongs to retrieve Damar's cookie.

Damar paused outside the store and unwrapped his cookie to munch on as he crossed the parking lot to his scooter. He glanced around to see if anyone was paying any attention to him before he got on and started the thing. He hated the damned thing, and he also hated the Defensive Driving course he was mandated to complete before he could have his license back. AA meetings had been recommended too, but not mandated, and Damar was not interested in that. If he planned to quit drinking (which he didn't) he'd do it himself. 

He drove to Terok Northside, or what was now known as Dominion's, and pulled his scooter around to the employee parking in the back. There was a new sign up and the freshly painted store front was a different color than it had been as Terok Northside Pizza. Damar frowned. Working for a chain was going to be a very different experience. Sure, he complained about the constant stress and disappointment of managing a shabby little pizza parlor, but despite all the hassle, he took pride in his work and the place had come to feel like a second home. 

He was early so he hung out by the back door and leaned against the wall to eat his sub. He had been hungry but now his stomach was just tying itself into knots. Damar was not thrilled about the changes the buyout would bring—more than anything he was certain it would be a lot of hassle. He already knew how things were run. Answering to Dukat was one thing, Damar trusted the man, even admired his business sense on some levels, but now he was going to have to answer to an entire hierarchy of corporate bozos. 

Damar finished his sandwich off quickly and tossed the wrapper into the dumpster. Once inside the building his eyes fell onto one person immediately. Weyoun was there. Damar barely refrained from a groan but the look in his eyes said enough. 

“Hey, Damar, look at our new uniforms!” Rugal paused his work slicing peppers and indicated his purple polo shirt and khaki slacks. Damar frowned. Every employee in the store was wearing the new uniform except for him. He was still dressed in black from head to toe. 

“I don't like purple,” Damar said, siding up to Rugal to look over his shoulder briefly, “and you're slicing those peppers all wrong. How many times have I told you--”

“This is the way Weyoun wants them,” Rugal says, “it's in the new handbook, too.”

Damar narrowed his eyes.

“And you're wearing that stupid earring--”

“According to the new store policies the company can't make me take off my earring. It's a religious symbol and if they made me get rid of it they would be violating--”

Damar grabbed the knife from Rugal's hand, along with a pepper, and began to slice it on the steel worktable.

“Uh... you don't have any gloves on,” Rugal whispered.

“Shut up,” Damar growled, “now look. This is how Dukat wants our peppers prepped. Do it this way, and get rid of the earring, or I'll write you up for it.”

Rugal snapped his teeth at Damar but Damar moved along. He wanted to see Weyoun and give him a piece or two of his mind. He gripped the man's bicep and pulled him aside.

“What's the meaning of this?” Damar said, “I come to work to find all of my employees dressed differently and doing things... wrong. I didn't get any memo about new uniforms, store policies, or practices.”

“Ohhh, I do apologize,” Weyoun crooned, “I wasn't provided with your phone number or e-mail address. I did manage to find your home address and I had considered sending the information via snail-mail but... I thought I must have done my research poorly. After all, I wouldn't have expected a seasoned assistant manager with as many years wasted on the food service industry as you have to be living in such a... derelict... sector of Cardassia Heights.”

“I don't—I didn't—evicted—never mind!” Damar growled, “you could have gotten my information from Dukat. You're trying to make me look incompetent on purpose!”

“Not at all,” Weyoun grinned, “you're doing a fine job of it all on your own. Now... I did leave two of the new uniform on your desk. Put them on before I dock points for an improperly dressed employee.”

Damar was having visions of dipping Weyoun's smug little head into the deep-fryer the store used for their wedges and wings. But he held his temper and went to his desk to snatch the uniform. A quick trip to the employee bathroom and he was changed into it and not happy about it at all. He hated the khaki slacks with a passion, hated the purple polo even more, and nothing was the right size. The clothes were baggy and terrible. 

“Button your collar and put the visor on,” Weyoun called as Damar stomped past him.

Damar grabbed his clipboard and attempted to go on about his day as usual. He needed to double-check the inventory and make sure that they had everything they had ordered to re-open the store, and in the proper amounts. It was a tedious task but at least the inventory didn't talk back to him like the staff did. Besides, he enjoyed order and he was good at keeping track of such things. The reason the store ran as smoothly as it did was because of him. 

Damar spent most of the morning running through the items in the back. A few times he had needed to send Ziyal away from repeatedly interrupting him with mundane questions while he was attempting to count things. He had growled at her that if she saw him with this clipboard in his hands, then she was to keep her mouth shut, unless someone's ass was on fire. He had realized after the fact that that analogy was in poor taste after what had happened to the store the night he'd gone out on pizza delivery duty.

By the time the lunch rush was on Damar had finished most of the inventory. He moved out to the front to take a look at how business was doing. The lobby was crowded with people. There were lines at the salad and buffet bars, and lines up front too. It was a good turn out for the re-opening. Things may have looked different—the booths and tables had changed, the hanging lights were different, and the wall art had changed. Down were the photos of happy teenagers surrounding their delicious pizza pies, men painted with the colors from their favorite sports team lifting foaming mugs of beer over a platter of fiery wings and crispy wedges, and a beautiful family laughing over spaghetti and salad. In their places were impersonal photos of vegetables glistening with water droplets, dried pastas spilling over the canvas in various shapes and sizes, a freshly-baked pizza resting on a wooden pizza peel, and Damar's least favorite of the bunch: a big photo of the founder of Dominion's Pizza—a dreadfully stern looking woman with blond hair slicked back from her face and donning an awful orange frock. Damar wrinkled his nose. The new surroundings didn't feel right to him. But at least he could spot the same faces filling the lobby. That filled him with some relief. 

“Corat,” a familiar voice called to him and an man with graying hair rose from a booth and made his way towards Damar.

“Tekeny,” Damar moved out from behind the front counter through a swinging half-door. He and Ghemor clasped hands. The older man smiled at him warmly, but there was a hint of sadness in his eyes, and the creases around the edges seemed to have grown deeper.

“I'm so glad the store is open again,” Ghemor said.

Damar nodded.

“As we all are,” he said.

“I'll bring a new flier of Iliana to post on the cork-board,” Gehmor said, his smile drooping just subtly at the mention of his daughter. 

Damar's expression grew grim. 

Iliana had been missing for a very long time. Police had never had any good leads on her disappearance and by now the case was considered to have gone cold. But that had not stopped Ghemor from making sure that there were always fliers all over town, in businesses, stapled to telephone poles, with his daughter's face and information. There was a Facebook page dedicated to finding her, a candlelight vigil held each year upon the date of her disappearance, and one year Quark's bar had even gotten t-shirts printed up. The last time Damar had checked the Facebook page there hadn't been any activity for a very long time, and each year the number of those who showed up at the vigil grew smaller, and smaller, and the t-shirts could now be found on tables at yard sales or on racks at the local thrift stores. Terok Northside had always allowed Mr. Ghemor to post his fliers of Iliana on their community cork-board. Damar glanced to the wall and was unhappy to find that the space where the corkboard had hung since he had started work there was empty.

“Weyoun!” Damar called. 

Damar had griped at the agitating man just earlier that there was no reason for him to stay through the lunch rush—but Weyoun had insisted on it. He wanted to see how the workers performed, and how many people came through the store, and to compare labor and productivity numbers at the end of the rush. This was something Damar did as a regular part of his job. But of course Weyoun had to step on his toes today at every turn. 

Weyoun appeared through the employee door and stepped out into the lobby and came over to Damar and Ghemor. He held his small, pale, hands laced primly together in front of himself.

“Is there a problem, Damar?” Weyoun tilted his head to regard Ghemor with a smile that had the appearance of pleasantry but didn't quite reach sincerity. A classic customer service expression. 

“What's happened to the community cork-board?” Damar gestured towards the blank space to the side of the soda fountain. 

“It was tacky,” Weyoun said.

“The community corkboard has always been a part of Terok Northside--” Damar argued.

“This is not Terok Northside,” Weyoun said calmly, “and there is no community cork-board.”

“That's just fine, Corat,” Ghemor said. He appeared to be attempting to smooth things over, to insert some diplomacy between the other two men. Damar was glaring daggers at Weyoun, his lips set into a sour pout, and Weyoun was just smiling at him as pleased with himself as a cat licking cream from its whiskers and paws.

“We can hang Iliana's poster in the window,” Ghemor said.

Damar gave a small sigh. He would have words with Weyoun about the cork-board later. For now it seemed a fine compromise to hang Iliana's flier in the window instead.

“Very well,” Damar said.

“Actually,” Weyoun cut across him in that annoying, crooning, simpering voice, “company policy is very strict about what sort of signage and décor can be on display in this store. I'm afraid we can't allow any fliers or signs from the public to be on display in our facility.”

Damar's fists clenched at his sides. Ghemor's smile had completely faltered at that.

“Oh I... I see,” the older gentleman said, “well she... she's probably dead by now, and... people must have grown weary of seeing her fliers. Many of the stores don't have them up any longer, and oh, the ones on the telephone poles are faded, ripped, or gone completely. I just... can't keep up with replacing them all anymore,” Ghemor said, “thank you anyway, Corat.”

Ghemor gave Damar's shoulder a small squeeze and turned away from him, round-shouldered, but his facial expression appearing as though he was trying to hide his defeat. Ghemor slumped down into the booth and stared down at the slice of half-eaten pizza on his plate. Damar felt his stomach twist into knots.

“Why would you do that?” Damar hissed at Weyoun, “what would it hurt to allow that kind old man to hang a poster of his lost daughter in our store? We may not hold the same political leanings, but family is everything--”

“Damar, you will do well to remember that things have changed. A pizza chain is not about family, or community. It is about numbers, productivity, profit, and success. Your compliance is everything and I demand no less than complete compliance with Dominion's rules. If you fail to serve us well as assistant manager of this store, then you will be replaced. Your loyalties must be to this company now. Do you understand me, or must I go through the monotony of repeating myself?”

Damar huffed a breath through his nose.

“I understand,” he growled.

Weyoun flicked one of the buttons on Damar's open shirt collar.

“Then be a dear and do as I tell you,” Weyoun said, “I don't enjoy being so harsh with you, Damar. But I am a representative of Dominion's, and that means something to me.”

Weyoun's gaze left Damar's face and Damar followed it to where it landed on the photo of Dominion's founder. Weyoun was gazing at it as though the woman in the photo was some sort of god.

Damar buttoned the collar of his shirt.

Thankfully Weyoun left them shortly after the lunch rush began to tapper off. By then Damar's mood was abysmal, however, and he was barking and shouting at anyone who committed the tiniest of blunders. He shouted at Ziyal for spilled shredded lettuce on the floor when she was filling the bins on the salad bar. He accused her of leaving finger prints on the sneeze guards, insisted that Rugal was stealing from the cash register since the money count from the drawer was off, and accused other employees of ridiculous things such as sneaking slices of desert pizza from the buffet line. No one had dared to argue back with him, however. It was obvious that he was in a mood to write someone up, or maybe burn the store down for a second time.

Damar had been taking a break at his desk and was bent over a cold slice of pepperoni pizza, a cup of diet soda, and the new employee handbook. The more he read of that book the harder his headache throbbed. There were so many changes down to minute things that even he wouldn't remember, let alone the regular employees. Anything from changes in the cleaning routines and schedules, to the way food was prepped, to using different dough for the pizza, to changes in store policy and scheduling shifts. Dukat had allowed Damar to implement many changes when he'd become assistant manager and the clever changes Damar had brought about had helped their numbers greatly. He was a smart man and could be trusted to know what he was doing so long as his drinking habit did not interfere. But Dominion's was pulling the rug out from under him. Their new employee scheduling system, for example, was a complete mess and changing the shift hours and rotations to what were Dominion's guidelines would put productivity numbers into the toilet. Damar would need to hire three new employees, and cut hours from his regulars, which would make most of them unhappy. According to Dominion's the store need more employees working shorter shifts.

“Why fix something if it isn't broken,” Damar grumbled, as he rubbed his fingertips firmly against his temples. 

He felt someone standing over him and glanced up. 

“Good afternoon, Damar,” Dukat said. The lines in his shallow cheeks stood out as he gave Damar a tight lipped smile, “I trust that things are going well on our re-opening day?”

Damar snorted.

“If by well you mean terrible--”

“Oh, Damar. Must you always be so negative? I'm certain it can't be that bad. I drove by at lunch time and the parking lot was full!”

“Why didn't you tell me about all this new stuff?” Damar grumbled, “I rather would've heard it from you than from that corporate worm.”

“Now, now, Damar,” Dukat said, “let's not be nasty. After all, you're back at work which should please you, and you'll see a raise in your pay on your next check. Surely you can't be too sour about that.”

Damar perked up at that and stood.

“A raise?” he was suspicious, though. Dukat wasn't known for handing out money even to those who clearly deserved more of it for the thankless work at which they toiled endlessly.

“A raise,” Dukat repeated, “let's see... you're making just over sixteen dollars an hour now. How does twenty-five sound?”

Damar's mouth fell open. He snapped it closed. Was he hallucinating?

“I'm sorry, what...”

Dukat chuckled at Damar's surprise.

“Come with me, and I'll explain,” Dukat said, sliding an arm around Damar's shoulders.

Dukat guided Damar into the utility closet and closed the door.

“As assistant manager of Dominion's your job duties have... shifted... a bit,” Dukat said, “have you heard of ketracel-white?” 

“Yes, how could I not have heard of it? It's grown more popular than methamphetamine now, according to the news. It's dangerous,” Damar said. White had been in and out of the news for years. But recently it seemed that use of the drug had surged to alarming heights. Damar remembered the latest report he had seen regarding the drug and the list of street names the anchor had rattled off: K, special K, ketra, white, milk, and Jem juice, due to the popularity of the drug among the Jem'Hadar.

“Mm, well, I wouldn't worry about the dangers of it if I were you, Damar,” Dukat moved closer to Damar, invading his personal space until their chests and noses were nearly touching. Dukat dropped his voice, “Dominion's is the number one supplier of K in this sector.”

“What does that have to do with me?” Damar asked, not liking the direction this conversation seemed to be heading.

“Everything,” Dukat said. He slipped a crisp hundred dollar bill from his shirt pocket and held it between two fingers. His other hand drew out a cell phone. It was a cheap flip-phone. He handed the phone to Damar. “You will receive 'special' orders at this number. The code is for the caller to order some sort of pizza with the request of 'white sauce on the side'. You will make these deliveries yourself. I trust you, Damar, to handle this.” 

Dukat held the phone out to Damar. Damar closed his hand over it.

“I don't like this,” he said.

“But you like this,” Dukat said sweetly, folding the hundred dollar bill, and tucking it into the collar of Damar's shirt, “your ex-wife is bleeding you dry with child support and alimony. You're always complaining of being behind on your rent. And... you could afford to buy better booze on this salary.”

Dukat laughed. Damar ground his teeth but he did not give the money or the phone back to Dukat. The worst part of all of this was that Dukat was right and they both knew it.

“Okay,” Damar said at last, “alright. I hate this new company but... I am loyal to you,” Damar said.  


Dukat gave him a smile at that. 

“You have my support, and my service,” Damar said.

“Very good, Damar.”

It didn't seem 'very good' to Damar, but it was what it was.

Damar was beat by the time he clocked out for the day. He'd spent over twelve hours in the store and he was craving his drink and his bed. He drove his scooter home and flopped down into his bed after a few drinks that eased the tension out of his head, neck, and shoulders, and relaxed his mood into something that would allow him to sleep. He was just drifting off when his phone buzzed.

“Mhm?” Damar mumbled.

“Corat!” 

“Rusot,” Damar yawned.

“I'm going to be in town tomorrow. Can I crash at your place for a few days? It's been too long since we've had some fun. I want to go to that Indigo Room while I'm there. I've heard good things about it. Say yes,” Rusot said.

“Yes,” Damar said, “now, leave me alone so I can sleep.”

Damar shut his phone off and attempted to lay it down on the nightstand beside his bed. It fell to the floor but he didn't bother to pick it up. At least his old buddy was going to be in town—and at a time when Damar really needed to blow off some steam. It was certainly something to look forward to.

Damar's phone rang again after midnight. He sat up blearily with his short hair falling over his forehead and groped around for it. It wasn't his personal ring tone. It was the cheap flip phone. He snapped it opened and pressed it to his ear with a slurred 'hello' which was probably not the practiced greeting he should have used.

“I need to order a large sausage pizza with extra white sauce on the side,” a voice said. 

“Order it tomorrow. I'll be working late tomorrow. Goodbye,” Damar closed the phone and flopped back down onto his pillows.

He didn't get anymore sleep that night.


	3. Old Friends and New Prospects

Note: be prepared for Rusot and Damar to be spouting off like the bigots they are at this point. I may love Damar but I don't sugar-coat his bad parts. Most Cardassians are xenophobic. I'm just attempting to keep him in character here. Also--closet sex and dirty talk.

IMPORTANT: Zatara (Lady Z as far as Damar and Rusot know right now) belongs to @ladyvean who is kind enough to allow me to write about her!

-

Damar was dressed and ready to go to work in the despised khaki and purple nightmare-uniform. It was still a bit too early to leave for his shift though so he had come out to the garage with a glass of cheap booze and he sat down on an overturned bucket, legs splayed wide and casual, to gaze longingly at his car. Lately his ex-wife, Mirem, had been harping at him that he needed to sell it and buy something more 'practical' and use the left over money to pay down some of his debt. The nerve she had trying to tell him what to do with his things, and what did his debts matter to her anyway, now that they were officially divorced? That truth still stung quite deeply. Damar took a swig of his alcohol and while the taste made him grimace the burn of it as it slid down his throat was good—it wasn't very smooth, though. 

He and Mirem had been separated for a long time, and their marriage had been on the rocks for even longer. Now it was just really over.

No family to come home to, no son to teach things to, to laugh with, to pat on the head. No warm body in bed at night, none of the passion they had once had—not even any fighting anymore. Damar had stopped rising to her snips and remarks by now. When she tried to gripe at him and prod him into arguments he just found the part of him that was numb and hunkered down until she drifted away again and then he would be angry about whatever she had said to him later, and brood about it, and sit in the garage and drink.

Damar glanced at his reflection in the shiny side of his car. He sighed. He downed the rest of his drink in one long gulp and sat the glass aside on a work table that he never had the time to use anymore.

He rose from his makeshift seat and dusted the back of his pants off, stretched a little, and thought about how he'd rather have stayed in bed.

But life was out there happening and Damar still had some role in it so he had better get going. He glanced down at his empty glass once more and slid his tongue along the curve of his full lower lip, considering one more drink before leaving, but it was bad idea. Anyway, he did have some self-control.

Once he had been at work for a few hours, however, Damar began to regret his decision not to have that second drink. It seemed that nothing could go smoothly for long and it was another short-staffed day on top of that. During the time that Terok Northside had been down due to the fire (Damar had began to hear of rumors that is had been arson) several employees had left for other work. Damar had slapped a sign on the front door that read in cheery yellow letters: Now Hiring! He had already called the paper to put in a 'help wanted' ad as well, and he had tasked Ziyal with putting it out there on social media or whatever it was that would reach people online. 

Ziyal wasn't scheduled to work this day though. Dukat kept instructing Damar to reduce her hours despite the fact that he and every other employee in the store was going to be overworked. But Dukat was taking his lovely daughter for some college visits. There were several art schools she was hoping to apply to. Damar was tired of hearing Dukat gush over his daughter and her 'talent' but of course he dare not say too much about that. Dukat was protective. But sometimes Damar's mouth got away from him anyway.

The lunch rush was hitting hard and Damar was thinking about the stacks of applications he had tossed in the trashcan earlier. He was picky about who he hired and wanted to avoid taking on anymore deadbeats and losers. But then again, Damar thought bitterly, who else would apply to work at a shitty pizza chain?

But Damar didn't have as much time to devote to the applications today as he had wanted to. Being short staffed and so busy had forced him to come up front and he was operating the cash register and attempting to fake his customer service smile but it wasn't going very far. Damar could certainly charm when he wanted to, but this kind of bullshit was different, and he had long ago ran out of patience for it. It was easy to chat with the regulars, with people he actually cared about to some degree, but to have to smile and make inane small talk and kiss ass to every customer who approached him... he just didn't have it in him anymore.

“Hello there,” said a portly older woman who was next in line. She said it with a tone that indicated there might be trouble—snippy, and on the verge of rudeness, but not quite.

“Hello, ma'am,” Damar said, trying his best not to sound gruff, “what can I--”

“Did you know that the lunch buffet special at Deep Dish 9 is only $9.99?” she said. She tugged a folded flier from her huge handbag, unfolded it, and slammed it down onto the counter, “why is yours $13.50? Didn't it used to be $11.00?”

Damar felt a sigh coming on but he held it back.

“Yes, ma'am, the price of the lunch buffet at Terok Northside used to be that. But as you can see, we've been bought out, and this Dominion's Pizza now. Some of the pricing has changed to reflect standard pricing by the chain,” Damar explained.

“Hmph,” the woman tapped her finger to the flier, “so, tell me why I shouldn't get my lunch here instead?”

“Because... ah... our food is better,” Damar said, “and... they don't have anyone this good looking running their cash register,” he said, attempting to placate her by laying on the charm. He even gave her a wink.

“If you think a pretty face is enough to work on me, then you're quite mistaken, mister,” the woman snatched her flier back and stuffed it into her suitcase-purse. “You should be willing to match your competitors pricing. I'm not paying $13.50 for a plate of iceberg lettuce and pizza that's probably been groped by half the city by now,” the woman said, glancing towards the buffet area.

“Alright,” Damar glanced to the line. It was really backing up and he decided it was best to just give the woman a deal to get things moving along, “I'll override the price and let you have the lunch buffet at the old Terok's price—just this once.”

He began to enter the override but the woman was still frowning at him.

“I want it for $9.99,” she said.

Damar narrowed his eyes at her.

“You're from The Swamp, aren't you?” Damar said.

He thought for a moment that the woman was going to slap him.

“I am from Ferenginar. I grew up in the Towers District, but now I live near the Center of Commerce. But it doesn't matter where in Ferenginar I'm from—you never let me hear you calling my home The Swamp, or you people calling us 'Swamp Rats'. I'll report you for that disgusting bigotry!”

Damar expected her to leave on that very, very, sour note. But she still seemed intent on getting her deal, true to Ferengi nature.

“Now, if that's not worth a discount, I don't know what is. I'm still hungry, and I still want my food. Punch in $6.99 for my buffet and I won't ask to speak to your manager,” she grinned sharply at him.

Damar knew he had done himself in with the derogatory comment that had slipped out and he certainly couldn't be getting into trouble with Dukat, or corporate, on only the second day of re-opening. He put in a price override for $6.99 and handed the woman her receipt. She snatched it from him with a look of smug triumph and marched towards the salad bar.

“Oh, well, you're going to give me a discount too, right?” Said the customer who had been waiting behind her, “I mean, she held up the entire line and I've been here waiting. It wouldn't be right for you to give her a discount, and not me, too.”

Damar sighed. He didn't even argue.

“Is there a special on the lunch buffet?” Said the next person.

“No,” Damar growled.

“But... I thought--”

“Yes,” Damar ammended.

“Oh! Good, good. I'll take that then. It's $9.99 over at Deep Dish 9's,” the customer handed Damar his plastic card. Damar glared at his backwards hat and wished he could knock it right off his head. “6.99's a real bad deal, man. How long's that going on?”

“For the rest of my life,” Damar groused, as he handed the kid back his card and receipt. 

After the lunch rush was tapering off Damar headed back to his desk and guzzled down some diet soda. He checked his phone to find several messages from Rusot, the last sent a few moments ago, stating that he was in the parking lot. Damar lifted his head when the door chime sounded and went to the lobby. Rusot had strolled in and a wide grin stretched his round face as he approached.

“Corat!” Rusot greeted his old friend with a hearty cry of his name.

“Sigol,” Damar clapped the other man on the shoulder in a friendly gesture, “am I glad to see you.”

“Of course you are,” Rusot said, returning the shoulder clap, “and it's good to see you,” Rusot glanced to Damar's head, “even wearing that lame-ass visor.”

“Hey! I don't exactly have a choice here,” Damar growled. He yanked the visor off his head and raked his fingers through his hair to try to settle it a bit. “It's just part of the uniform. Stop razzing me.”  


“Leave it, leave it, it looks cute,” Rusot snickered. 

Damar narrowed his eyes at his friend.

“Listen, I don't need you mocking me today,” he said, turning his back to lead Rusot out of the lobby and into the back area for employees. He could hear Rusot's boots scuffing along the floor behind him.

“Rough day?” Rusot asked, perching his ass on the corner of Damar's desk.

“I'm not fond of many of the changes that have come along with this chain bullshit, and then I had to deal with the most irritating Ferengi woman--”

“God, have you ever seen such ugly women?” Rusot frowned, “Swampy women are fuckin' hideous. It's like some sort of rule with those people. I wouldn't even fuck a Swampy if her head was stuffed into a pillowcase. Jesus.”

“Yeah, you're telling me,” Damar agreed, and sat down on the edge of the desk next to Ruost, his legs splayed wide to take up space. “Like any respectable guy from Cardassia Heights, I stick to my own kind. Anyhow--”

“Man, have you heard the joke about how the Swampy guys don't let the women wear any clothes around the house? Their dicks are so small they gotta make themselves feel all big by treating their ugly bitches like dogs,” Rusot hung his tongue out his mouth and made a 'woof' sound.

“Everybody's heard that rumor for as long as anyone can remember. It's one of those urban legends. I don't think they really do that. But...” Damar leaned in closer to Rusot and smirked, “I bet the men do have tiny dicks. That's why they have to strut around in all those showy outfits all the time and wave their money in everyone's faces.”

Rusot nodded in agreement.

Damar was feeling so much better already just having a like-minded person around to chatter to, though Rusot could get so crass sometimes that it was even too much for Damar to agree with. But generally speaking they were similar people and it felt good to be validated. 

“Damn, am I glad you showed up,” Damar said, rolling his shoulders a bit. He grimaced and gave a small groan as the muscles seemed to catch and knot.

“Yeah, you're all wound up. You could really do to blow off some steam,” Rusot said. His hand slid along Damar's inner thigh and began to stroke. “Oh yeah, you still tuck to the right.”

“Why would I change my habits now?” Damar asked. He spread his legs a little wider and sighed, “knock it off—anybody could come back here and see you groping me.”

“But I've always liked your cock,” Rusot said, grinning mischievously, “and you got hard real fuckin' fast. Bet I could make you nut in your pants like a kid.”

“Shut up!” Damar growled. He snatched Rusot's wrist and lifted his hand away. Rusot's dark eyes flashed at him.  


“How about you make me?”

Damar gripped Rusot's wrist more tightly and stared him down with a smolder that could make some men and women wilt. His blood was hot and his cock was hard against his thigh and having someone pay some good attention to it was a very, very, tempting offer. Damar had had few other people who could suck his dick as well as Rusot did, his wife included, though there had been plenty of other things she had been very good at in the bedroom.

But Damar didn't want to think of her—instead his thoughts were conjuring memories from college when Rusot and Damar had sucked each others dicks on a regular basis and on several occasions when they'd been drunk enough they'd fucked too. 

Damar considered that the lunch rush was over with and that the stress was knotting and bunching the muscles in his neck, shoulders, and back into something that would in a few more hours be too painful to tolerate. Damar didn't want to spend his first evening with his friend in town laying in bed and reeking of Icy-Hot rub. 

“I'll make you,” Damar growled.

His employees seemed to be tending to the lobby, cleaning and arranging things after the decimation the lunch rush always brought, and others were out running deliveries. No one was in the back prepping, or pushing pizzas into ovens, or washing dishes. Damar tugged Rusot to the utility closet and locked them both inside. Rusot pushed Damar back against a shelving unit hard and it creaked beneath their weight and he stole Damar's mouth in a rough, sloppy, kiss, while Damar worked on getting his own pants undone. 

“Get that dick out,” Rusot growled against Damar's lips.

“Eager bitch,” Damar laughed, and pushed his chest up against Rusot to shove him back a little. “You haven't had another cock as good as mine, have you?” Damar said, pumping his half-hardon once.

“No, that thing you have is a real beauty,” Rusot said, lowering himself to his knees without even being asked to. Damar gave an appreciative rumble.

“Tell me more about how nice my cock is,” Damar said, prodding Rusot's cheek with the tip.

Rusot batted Damar's hand away and wrapped his own around it instead.

“Nice and thick,” Rusot said, “nice big head...” Rusot paused to spit on Damar's cock and rub it some more. “Good hangers too.”

Damar closed his eyes and groaned with pleasure while Rusot used his other hand to fondle his balls.

“Good hang, big and full of lots of cum, think I better lick 'em,” Rusot said.

Damar opened his eyes to watch Rusot lean in and suck one of his balls into his mouth, and then the other. Damar gripped Rusot's mop of black hair.

“Fuck, yeah,” Damar hissed, “suck on Daddy's cum-sack, boy.”  


Rusot continued to suck on them until they were dripping with spit. Damar was fully hard by then and Rusot spit on his dick again and wrapped his lips around the thick pink head. 

“You're disgusting,” Damar growled.

“Mmmhmph,” Rusot muttered around his mouthful. 

Rusot's fingers fondled Damar's wet balls again and then slid further back across the smooth skin behind them, and further to tickle his asshole.

“Hey,” Damar growled, “stop that,” he smacked the back of Rusot's head which made him choke briefly and caused his eyes to water. 

Rusot pulled back and left Damar's cock free for a moment. He wiped the back of his hand across his messy face.

“How come? You've got a great ass—just between the two of us—and I haven't fucked it good for you in a long time. Hmm?” Rusot unbuttoned and unzipped his dark denim jeans and slid them down his thick waist and hips. 

Damar admired him appreciatively. He loved a good curvy woman but there was something delicious about a strong man too, a nice hard body pressed up against his, the kinds of sounds men made when they fucked. Rusot's cock was hard too and jutting from between his thick and furry thighs. It was shorter than Damar's by more than an inch but it was nice and fat. 

“You've got some saggy nuts,” Damar teased his old friend.

“Shut up, asshole—besides, they're good for slapping against your round bottom when I fuck you—which I am gonna do,” Rusot leered. “Of course, I expect you to fuck me right back.”

“Later, later,” Damar said gruffly, tugging on Rusot's hair.

Rusot continued to suck as much of Damar's cock as he could while keeping one hand wrapped around the rest of it and twisting, while the other yanked his own dick. 

“Come on and cum for me already,” Rusot said after some time.

Damar's eyes were screwed closed and he was writhing beneath the other man, his fingers griping the shelf behind him, his legs splayed wide. 

“Blow that shit right in my mouth, come on,” Rusot pumped them both more furiously.

“Fuck, shit—god damn--” Damar swore.

“Come on, motherfucker, I don't have all damn day, come.”

“I am, I am, I'm gonna--”

“Mm, yessss,” Rusot hissed as he opened his mouth at the tip of Damar's cock. Damar arched and with a series of growls and mild thrashes he finished and managed to get most of his load into Rusot's mouth. Damar gazed down at his friend who was holding his cum in his mouth where it seemed to be swimming against his wide, pink, tongue, with a drizzle splashed across the underside of his nose. Rusot had came too and his juice was splattered onto one of Damar's pant legs.

Rusot spat Damar's come onto the floor and wiped his mouth and nose on the back of his hand. Damar glared down at him as he leaned back against the shelving unit.

“That's a health-code violation, you sick pup,” Damar said, pointing down at the come and spit on the floor.

“You're not serious,” Rusot chuckled gruffly.

Damar reached forward and shoved Rusot's head down until his face was pressed against the dirty floor.

“I am,” Damar said, “now lick it up.”

Rusot loitered around the store until it was time for Damar to clock out. It was growing dark as they made their way across the parking lot, Damar with his visor in hand, and finally off of his head. It wasn't one of his 'late' nights in which he was made available to run his 'special orders' and for that Damar was grateful. He wasn't at all thrilled about his new role and he had already considered going back on his offer and telling Dukat that he wasn't going to do it. He had only accepted so easily because he had wanted to show his loyalty to Dukat, and because he really needed the money, but after meeting a few Jem'Hadar, who seemed to be the primary market for the White, Damar was having second thoughts on the whole thing. But tonight he was going to put it out of his mind and have fun.

“We're gonna have a blast tonight, man,” Rusot said, clapping Damar on the back, “just like old times.”

“Yeah, we will,” Damar did his best to agree, “where are we going, Quarks?”

“Are you kidding? I thought we had a talk earlier about Swampies,” Rusot said.

“Well, he's just about the only one I can tolerate. And besides, some of his girls aren't bad—the Cardassian ones, at least,” Damar said.

“Well, I want to go to that new place. The Indigo Room. Bet we'll look great pulling up to that place in your Porsche--”

“Uh... actually,” Damar grabbed Rusot's elbow and steered him away from the Employee Only parking spots. “Let's take your ride.”

Rusot lead him to a shining black Escalade with winking chrome rims and detailing. 

“You traded in the Hummer?” Damar asked, admiring the shine of the rims.

“Yeah. Thought it was time for something a little more classy,” Rusot said, opening the door for Damar before going around to the other side. Damar climbed in and and continued to admire the white leather interior.

“I don't know if you and classy go together,” Damar said, “you like Budweiser, reality t.v., conservative politics, and sucking my dick in a closet.”

“Not classy?” Rusot asked, as he started the Escalade and made it purr. 

“Not classy,” Damar chuckled.

He had thought that Rusot's Hummer had been a better fit for him—it reflected the man in many ways—built hearty and tough, rugged, and bold. It was a nod to Rusot's military service too. Rusot had served in the reserves to help pay for his college but like Damar he hadn't finished. Instead Rusot had chosen to go into the military full time and seen several deployments. 

“I don't see you looking so classy either with that pizza boy uniform on,” Rusot countered, “we'll stop at your place so you can clean up and put something on that makes you look your age.”

Damar glared at the dashboard at that assessment but he knew it was right.

He forbid Rusot from making any comments about his rundown place when they got there and he just went about taking care of his five o'clock shadow, splashing on some aftershave, dragging a comb through his hair, and finding something to wear that looked good for a night spent at the Indigo Room.

Damar came out of his bedroom wearing a pair of black slacks that fit great in all the right places, and a dark forest green button up with a nice blazer over the top. 

“Hey, you clean up okay,” Rusot said, nudging his friend in the side.

“I know,” Damar said, popping the first two buttons on his shirt and leaving his collar open, “let's go.”

The Indigo Room was already full of people even though it was early in the evening. The lights were low and here and there they gave forth an indigo glow beneath the lip of the bar counter, or near the stage, or other special places. There was a second floor with a wraparound balcony with small intimate tables spaced around so that people could sit in more private areas and look down on the atmosphere below. Here and there were tucked angular leather sofas and chairs for more comfortable seating. 

Hanging down onto the stage were strips of silky fabric, some sheer, and some not, in various shades of indigo, white, and black. Damar wondered if there was going to be some sort special performance that night. He allowed Rusot to lead him to the bar for drinks.

“What the hell do you order at a place like this?” Rusot whispered to Damar.

“I'll take care of it,” Damar said, sliding his thumbs beneath the edges of his lapels. He tapped his hand against the bar top to get the attention of the bar tender. “Do you have a... house special, or something?” he asked.

“The Indigo Lady,” said the bartender. 

Damar looked them up and down. He couldn't determine by appearance or voice what gender they were—they seemed to be completely androgynous. Tall, willowy, dark skin with light patches, and black hair with a purple fade on the tips piled up on their head and hanging down in ropy tendrils. Their strange black eyes were both beautiful and unnerving.

“Okay, honey,” the bartender grinned at the men while they made their drinks.

Rusot leaned in towards Damar and whispered again.

“Look at those freaky eyes—all the weird ones come from Betazed. Bet he—she—uh... that thing can read our minds with those freak-eyes,” Rusot said.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Damar countered, shifting uncomfortably on his seat, “they're probably just contacts anyway.”

Damar tugged the cuffs of his shirt a bit and gave the bartender a nod of thanks when their drinks were placed in front of them—two martini glasses with the drink being the ever popular indigo shade that seemed to darken down to black as the glass tapered. The edges were rimmed in salt crystals that seemed to glitter like diamonds.

“A little more frou-frou than what I'm used to,” Rusot grunted, “but at least there's no umbrella in it, or a bunch of fruit on toothpicks.”

“Cheers to upsetting your manhood,” Damar said, lifting his glass to Rusot.

“Fuck you,” Rusot laughed, but he clicked his glass to Damar's anyway.

They had a few of those and then the lights lowered for the show. Damar and Rusot turned on their bar stools and leaned with their backs against the bar to watch. A group of performers came onto the stage and they began a dance to a haunting composition incorporation the hanging silk. As the show progressed the performers wound themselves up and down the swaying silk and twisted and turned in what seemed like impossible movements. Rusot had to scoff at the show every few moments but Damar was watching intently, his lips pursed. He wouldn't have admitted it to Rusot but he found it to be beautiful and moving in ways that he couldn't quite understand.

When it was over with Damar turned back to the bar and patted it to grab the bartenders attention again.

“Something stronger,” he said, feeling the need to reassert his masculinity. “A good bourbon,” he suggested.

Two tumblers were poured for them and Damar took a sip of the smooth drink and closed his eyes to savor it. This was far from the cheap stuff he bought to drink at home. This was good stuff.

“Hey, I bet I can get in the pants of one of those performers,” Rusot said, elbowing Damar.

“Maybe,” Damar said.

“There's no maybe about it. You can have one too. Come on, we didn't come here to just sit around and watch. I know you—you grab what you want,” Rusot said.

“Hmm,” Damar said, “I am assertive when I've got my eye on something, or someone.”

“Then whose got your eye tonight?” Rusot said.

Damar swiveled on his stool and scanned the room for anyone to catch his attention. His gaze fell onto a particular woman who caused him to lean forward on his stool and almost forget about the bourbon in his hand. 

“Look at her,” Damar said, gesturing.

He watched her flirt with an older man from a distance. She drew her fingers through strands of her hair which was either platinum blond, or completely white, and it hung all the way down her back and brushed the swell of her full, round, bottom. She was wearing a clinging black dress and when she shifted a slit parted at the side that ran all the way up her leg and over the curve of her generous hip. 

“I don't know how she's keeping those tits in that dress,” Rusot commented, “you think they're real?”

“Shut up,” Damar said.

“Do you think that ass is real? Did you know girls are getting fake asses now?”

“Rusot, shut up,” Damar growled.

“You always did have a thing for the curvy ones. She's got that vibe about her too. Man, look at the way she's standing, the way she's walking... you have a type,” Rusot snickered.

“She's coming this way,” Damar said, “keep your mouth shut and try to be... less of a pig.”

Rusot snorted and Damar swatted him in the chest which caused Rusot to spill his bourbon down Damar's sleeve.

“Fuck,” Damar hissed.

The woman came right up to the bar with the slinkiness and predatory prowling walk of a powerful jungle cat. Damar's mouth went dry when she spoke to the bartender in a husky tone.

“Hey, babe, those boys over there need a tray of Indigo Ladies,” she said.

“On it, Lady Z,” the bartender said, and began to mix the drinks.

“Lady Z,” Damar said, leaning nearer to this intoxicating woman, “what does that stand for?”

“Ohh, hello there,” she purred. She slid a long, glossy, black nail along her full lower lip. “It's just Lady Z for now,” she said.

“My friend really likes you,” Rusot said from over Damar's shoulder, “how much?”

Damar stiffened instantly and he scowled, the lines around his mouth seeming to grow more pronounced.

“Don't listen to that fool. He's drunk, and I have no idea who he is—” Damar began.  


“Excuse me,” her voice was so sharp now it seemed like it could have cut either of them to ribbons, “how much? How much am I?” She placed her hand atop the mounds of her cleavage and heaved a breath that seemed in danger of busting the bodice of her dress completely. 

“Yeah, that's what I asked, Lady-Whatever. You got a problem with that?” Rusot continued.

Damar sighed.

“I'm gonna need more bourbon,” Damar muttered.

The woman inserted herself between Damar and Rusot. She slid one of her claw-like nails along the line of Rusot's jaw.

“None of the workers in this establishment are for sale,” she hissed, “and as owner of this business, I am certainly not for sale. But if I was...” she scoffed at Rusot, then turned to Damar, and gave him a grin that was both vicious, and sexy. Damar seemed to recall something about some sort of insect that ate the head of its mate after fucking—and he thought that this woman just might have similar inclinations. 

“If I was for sale,” she leaned close to Damar and gave his shoulder a firm squeeze, “you couldn't afford me, Daddy.”

She turned and held her hands out to accept the silver tray laden with drinks that the bartender had finished. Damar and Rusot both watched her walk away with the confidence of a king, the body of a goddess, and the six-inch heels of a dominatrix with bad ideas.

“Holy fuck,” Rusot whistled, “what a bitch.”

“God damn she has me twisted in all kinds of ways...” Damar gripped his tumbler of bourbon.

“Jesus, Corat,” Rusot said, “she's fucking terrifying.”

“Like you said,” Damar finished off his bourbon with a swallow and placed the empty glass down on the bar. “I've got a type.”


	4. Up Against A Wall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of: assault, drugs, explicit bathtub sex, brief paddling.

A velvety jazz seemed to float through bourbon laced air and the low lighting, tinted with indigo, painted a beautiful, almost iridescent, sheen over the pale body of the club owner—Lady Z—as Damar pressed her against the bar in the empty club. She lifted her leg and hooked it around his hip and it was bare all the way up, parting the high slit of her clingy black dress.

Damar grabbed the top and yanked it further down her shoulders and chest. Her full breasts revealed themselves like two snowy mounds. The skin was nearly translucent there and he could see the blue veins throbbing beneath the surface. He leaned down and swiped his tongue over one of her hardened nipples. 

“I'm going to fuck those tits and blow my damn load all over that pretty face of yours,” Damar growled.

Lady Z laughed.

“If I let you come,” she said.

Damar shook his head. He needed to get his mind in the game. Sadly enough he wasn't in the Indigo Room with the Lady Z bent over and willing for him. Instead he was sitting on his scooter under an awning and conjuring a fantasy that he would much rather be reality than the cold, rainy night that was making the streets shine and the collar of his jacket stick to his neck. He grimaced as he tugged at it and pushed his chin out in frustration.

Across the street was the apartment complex where he was supposed to be delivering a large order of Special K. The white was ready to go but there was a feather stuck in the blinds of one of the windows. It was bright red, easy to spot, and it was a sign that it wasn't yet safe to make the delivery.

Damar grunted and watched rivulets of rain pour off the awning above him and slide along the ruts and grooves in the muddy alleyway. He sniffed and scowled. The rain was only serving to enhance the smell of the nearby dumpsters and the strewn trash that was littering the area like rotten confetti. But at least there was the awning. It kept the rain from soaking him completely. Even so, Damar was wondering what sort of reprimand he would receive if he just said 'fuck it' and went home for a hot bath and a jerk-off instead.

Suddenly there was subtle movement at the blinds and the red feather disappeared from view. 

“About damn time,” Damar said. 

He paused to make a slight adjustment to his pants, then he stepped out of the shadowed alleyway carrying his pizza boxes. It was a tall stack and each box was full of vials of white. Damar hurried across the street and made it to the other sidewalk just before the swimming yellow headlights of a vehicle appeared and splashed through puddle that just barely missed soaking his pant leg. Damar considered flipping a nice gesture to the driver of the car, but then again Gamma City wasn't a good place to make enemies or shoot off ones mouth-especially not in these districts. It was a rough area and Damar knew that he needed to consider his safety over his attitude. 

He paused to look up at the building in front of him. The apartment complex was a tall and crumbling brick building that was attached on either side to other crumbling brick buildings. On one side it appeared that a church must rent the building—First Founders Faith Church—it read. There was a large symbol painted in the window that Damar had seen many times before. It looked like a large “J” with a little tail on it inside a black diamond shape. The place was probably full of Vorta on whatever day was their worship day. Knowing those people though, worship day was probably every day. It was almost odd to see the sort of temple one would find on every corner in Vorta Vistas on a dirty street in Jem'Hadar. But then again Damar had heard that lately the two districts were intermingling and merging more and more. The building next door looked to be abandoned, complete with broken and boarded windows, and bad vibes. Damar took a deep breath and forced himself to enter the complex.

Once he was inside he wrinkled his nose up. The smell that greeted him in the entryway was a lovely bouquet of weed, mold, and cat urine. Damar decided that he wanted that hot bath more than ever. 

He climbed up two flights of stairs, doing his best to attempt to ignore the profane graffiti on the walls, the scattered trash, and a big burly guy who was sleeping in one of the stairwells. The sleeping hulk was probably a Jem'Hadar judging by the size and rough look of him. All the Jem'Hadar, Damar thought, looked like thugs, as if they'd been bred for nothing more than senseless fighting. 

Finally Damar opened the door onto the second floor hallway and crept out into the corridor. Aside from the place looking rundown there didn't appear to be anything inherently scary about it. The hair at the back of Damar's neck lifted to attention anyway, and he could feel his arms breaking out in goosebumps. _Alright, don't be a pussy. You used to party at some of the apartment complexes near the University back in your frat days and those places didn't look much more classy than this. You didn't give a shit back then. Man up, Corat!_

Damar moved down the hallway towards the room with the correct number and knocked at the door. His stomach seemed to do a terrible flip-flop when he noted some curious holes in the door frame—bullet holes? Damar didn't have time to turn back though. The door opened and a meaty hand shot out and drew him inside. Damar was pinned against the wall. The top two boxes of white slid off of his stack and fell to the floor coming open and sending tubes rattling over the wood flooring. He managed to save the other boxes.

“Fuck!” Damar hissed.

“You have it? You have it?” the huge man loomed over Damar and he felt something sharp pressing up against his ribs. He dared to glance down to see that this savage Jem'Hadar was holding a knife to him. “If you don't have the White, I'll shank you. Do you have it?”

“Yes,” Damar faltered. He tried again in a more commanding tone—don't appear to be weak!-- “Yes, I have the white. It's all here... well, most of it. The rest is all over the floor since you decided to manhandle me. Don't you Jem'Hadar morons have any--” 

Damar swallowed the rest of the sentence. His mouth was going to get him into big trouble if he wasn't very careful. His heart was thudding behind his sternum, his skin clammy, but he forced himself to hold a steely gaze with the wild one the Jem'Hadar was giving to him. It was obvious that this guy had been without his drug for too long. 

The knife withdrew and the Jem'Hadar snatched the pizza boxes from Damar's hands and then shoved him out the door. Damar wanted to bolt out of there as fast as he could but he also had a lot of pride—so he maintained his dignity and left the apartment complex with his head held high. He didn't want to think about how bad it could have been—nothing had happened, after all. He was still in one piece.  


Damar kept his head held high as he walked out of the apartment complex but once he was back across the street and seated on his scooter he dropped his head into his hands. He considered himself to be somewhat brave. He wasn't in the habit of backing down from something risky, nor backing down from a fight, but he couldn't say that he'd ever had a knife shoved into his ribs by a dangerous man shaking from withdrawal. Damar took a few deep breaths to steady himself. His stomach was churning and his hands were trembling. He gripped the handlebars of his scooter to still them. _You're okay_ , he told himself, _just go home and have something to drink and everything will be fine._

Once he was home, Damar stripped his clothing off and headed to the bathroom leaving articles of damp clothing in a trail behind him. He brought a bottle with him and stared himself down in the mirror as the tub behind him filled with hot water. _What are you doing, Corat?_

The tired blue eyes that peered back at him didn't have much of an answer. He frowned. He listened to the water splashing into the tub as it filled and in the reflection in the mirror he saw Mirem kneeling at the edge of the tub and Damek splashing her with bubbles as they both giggled.

A moment later the image along with Damar's face was fogged over from the steam. 

He turned away from the dead mirror, turned the water off, and climbed into the tub with his bottle. Damar sank down into the hot water with a sigh and let his head tip back. After being out in the cold rain the embrace of the water felt almost as good as the burning skin of a willing partner pushing and rubbing against him beneath the sheets. Damar gave himself a few more quiet moments to savor the warmth and the steam and then he opened his bottle and took a long drink, and then another. 

After the third he sat the bottle down next to the tub and slid his hand beneath the water to caress the spot on his ribs where the knife had been. It had left no mark: there was nothing there but soft, unblemished skin. But Damar was almost certain that if he looked at it there would be a mark. He furrowed his brows in growing annoyance at himself. What was he so upset about? Nothing had happened. He had made his delivery and he was home in a nice bath. 

That was it.

“Man, you just need to unwind a little,” Damar said to himself, “stressful day.”

He slid his hand upwards forcing himself to stop touching the 'spot' on his ribs. His rough fingertips brushed his nipple instead and he made a little grunt of pleasure and pinched it. He swirled his fingers around lazily and let them tangle the coarse and curly hairs there. His other hand delved beneath the water for his cock and stroked it lazily. Damar tipped his head back and closed his eyes while he stroked himself and entertained various fantasies. One of them landed back on the owner of the Indigo Room. He couldn't seem to get her out of his head.

He opened his eyes a bit and watched as she rose from the water between his knees. Her wet white hair hung like strips of silk and the water rolled over her full lips, and it caught on her lashes. It slid down her neck, and it dripped from her hardened nipples. She yanked his hand away from his cock and pinned against the edge of the bathtub above his head, and then the other too. Damar groaned but she kissed him fiercely to muffle the sound. Her wet mouth ravaged his lips and then moved along his jawline and down his neck sucking, and biting, and scraping the sensitive skin with her teeth.

“Fuck...” Damar muttered.  


“Fuck yeah, keep strokin' it.”

“Hng!” Damar jerked up in surprise and sloshed water over the edge of the tub. He peered up at Rusot with wide eyes but they soon narrowed in irritation. “What the fuck are you doing sneaking into a mans' bathroom? What's wrong with you, you asshole!” Damar grunted.

“You said it before. I'm a sick pup,” Rusot snickered. He knelt down at the edge of the bath. “You uh... would you like some help with that?” Rusot pointed to the pink head of Damar's cock that was just barely visible poking up from the water.

Damar shifted his hips to push it further up for display.

“What do you think?”

“Whoa—did I just spot Nessie coming up for some air?” Rusot teased.

“What does my cock have to do with the Loch Ness Monster?” Damar asked, flicking a bit of water at his friend.

“They're both legendary,” Rusot said.

Damar laughed heartily at that.

“Fuck yeah,” Damar said, patting Rusot's cheek roughly with his wet hand, “come on and play with Nessie a little,” Damar urged.

Rusot's hand disappeared into the water and Damar gave him an appreciative sound as his friend stroked his dick. 

“Gone fishing,” Rusot gave Damar a little smirk.

“You caught a nice one there, Sigol. Reel it in, you sick motherfucker,” Damar propped one of his feet up at the end edge of the tub and sneered at Rusot as the slick hand pumped him. 

Damar studied his friend with a burning gaze and lifted a dripping hand from the water. He gripped Rusot's neck just above the collar of his black t-shirt. Damar admired the way the cotton fabric pulled tight over his chest and around his biceps. His fingers began to kneed the side of Rusot's neck along where the pulse was thumping. 

“Get in here,” Damar growled, his voice taking on a more gravelly, commanding tone. He tugged at the collar of Rusot's shirt. “Hey--” Damar growled when Rusot began to fiddle with his shirt, “I didn't tell you to get undressed. Just get the fuck in. Learn how to listen.”

“Okay, okay, don't get your nuts in a twist,” Rusot climbed into the tub in his tight t-shirt and thin gray pajama pants. 

It wasn't easy for two grown men to fit into the tub but Damar hung both of his legs over the edges and spread them wide so Rusot could settle in between them and he pulled his friend down for a possessive and sloppy kiss. Damar scraped his nails over the fabric that was wet and clinging to Rusot's wide chest. Rusot growled in response.

“Let me fuck you, Corat,” Rusot said. Damar could feel Rusot's cock hard against him. 

“Fuck me then, slut,” Damar said, yanking at the elastic wasteband of Rusot's pajama pants. 

Rusot pushed himself onto his knees and Damar hissed appreciatively at the way the wet fabric was clinging to his thick cock. Damar shifted forward a bit to grip it.

“That's a good cock,” Damar said, squeezing the outline of the shaft.

“I fuckin' know it is,” Rusot said, hooking his thumbs into his waistband. He teased it down a little.

“Hey, what are those?” Damar teased. He let go of Rusot's dick and pinched one of the soft little love handles that was just beginning to form above Rusot's hip. 

“Fuck off, shithead,” Rusot swatted at Damar's hand, “you'll get yours one day.”

“Nah,” Damar leaned back again and rested his arms along the edges of the tub. “I'll still be perfect when I'm sixty. A silver fox. Won't be able to keep people away from me. Now, shut up and fuck me before I change my mind and pound that whore-ass of yours.”

“You're always such a prick,” Rusot grunted.

“Only when I'm horny or pissed off,” Damar replied, flicking water at him.

“Like I said, always.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Damar shoved Rusot's hands out of the way and yanked his pajama bottoms the rest of the way down.

“Nah, fuck _you_ Corat,” Rusot said, giving his strong hips a wag and making his dick dance. Damar licked his lips.

“Do it you stupid punk,” Damar demanded.

Rusot shoved his hand beneath the water and probed a finger into Damar's hole.

“Say please,” Rusot hissed as he slid his finger in up to the next knuckle, “please, Sigol, you handsome motherfucker, fuck me in my hairy little asshole. Mmm... say that, Corat.”

“Go to hell, bitch,” Damar said, “and take that ugly thing you call a face with you.”

“Goddamn!” Rusot exclaimed. “You're a ruthless fucker.”

“This is nothing,” Damar said.

Damar grunted as Rusot worked a second finger in and stretched him. He gripped the sides of the tub and his fingers slipped against the cool surface.  
“Show me next time then,” Rusot said.

“What if there's not a next time? Maybe I'm getting bored of you,” Damar said.

“Fuck you, man. We'll probably be fuck buddies when we're ninety,” Rusot chuckled.

Damar cringed.

“Hey, don't talk shit like that now, you'll kill the mood. I don't want to think about what either of our dicks will look like at that age,” Damar splashed his partner.

“Silver foxes?”

“No,” Damar said, “now, stop talking shit and give me that nice young dick.”

“Young? That's a stretch,” Rusot said. Both of his hands were under the water now and Damar could feel the head of his cock prodding at his hole.

“Middle-aged then,” Damar corrected, “oh, come on—yeah... sink it in...”

“Fuck,” Rusot hissed as he pushed his hips forward. Damar tipped his head back and arched his back, his mouth open, eyes closed, while Rusot's dick stretched and filled him. 

“Good, good,” Damar muttered, “feels damn good. Move those hips and fuck me hard. Don't be easy. I want to feel it. Bruise my ass and make it pretty.”

“Well, alright,” Rusot said, grinning at Damar like a pleased cat, “it's usually you doing the bruising but--”

“Do you want to fuck me or not, you asshole. Come on. I'm getting impatient and I might just change my mind,” Damar said.

“And fuck me instead?” Rusot shifted his hips a little and made Damar gasp. 

“No—throw you out of my house and into the street wet, naked, and with a hard-on.”

“Hm, wouldn't be the first time I've been in the street naked with a hard-on,” Rusot shrugged.

Damar yanked him down by his shirt and smashed their mouths together to shut him up and get him going. Soon they were both grunting and growling, biting each others jawlines and necks, and the water was sloshing out of the tub with Rusot's powerful thrusts. Damar's face was contorted with pleasure and his primal noises of pleasure urged his friend on until Damar was writhing beneath him and they were both satisfied. 

“I uh... think your bath got a little dirty,” Rusot said in a gravelly voice.

“Little bit, yeah,” Damar agreed. But damn did he feel good. He closed his eyes to enjoy the lingering pleasure of his orgasm. Some of his muscles were still twitching from it. 

He watched Rusot untangle his sopping pajama bottoms from around his feet and toss them over the edge of the tub. He climbed out and stood with his back to Damar for a moment and rolled his shoulders. His t-shirt was still on and pasted to him and Damar looked his friend over with appreciation. He followed the curve of his back down to his ass and watched the water run over the round cheeks and down the backs of Rusot's strong thighs.

Damar heaved himself out of the tub too and bent careful to pull the plug.

He turned and gave a hearty slap to Rusot's wet ass.

“Let's go again, soldier,” Damar said, “or are you too worn out?”

Rusot turned towards him and puffed his chest.

“I'm not ninety just yet,” Rusot said, “but if I remember right, you're the one that always wants to sleep after.”

“Not this time,” Damar said, gripping his friends wrist, “let's go.”

“Only if you play fair and fuck me this time,” Rusot said.

Damar tugged Rusot towards the bathroom door and their feet padded over the tiles and left little puddles behind them and out into the hallway against the scuffed wooden flooring. Damar knocked some clutter off of his bed and onto the floor and shoved Rusot down onto the bed. The old springs creaked under the sudden weight and they whined as Damar climbed on too.

Damar fumbled for the top drawer on his night stand and pulled out a small paddle.

“Ooh, you're gonna use that on my ass?” Rusot asked, leaning back on his elbows, and spreading his legs a little.

“I'll use it where I please,” Damar said, “that's uh... if you're into it.”

Rusot leered at him.

“This wouldn't be the first time. Guess not for you either, huh?” Rusot gestured towards the paddle. Damar glanced at it briefly clutched in his hand then back to Rusot.

“Well... sometimes I... sorta... play with it by myself,” Damar muttered.

“Oh man, you have to get someone else to do it. It's... good. Just don't let a woman do it. You don't want a woman to know she can get away with busting your ass up, alright? There are some things that just aren't right. I'd never let a woman boss me in the bedroom,” Rusot snorted.

Damar narrowed his eyes at Rusot and laid a good whack to his ass with the paddle.

“Oh!” Rusot cried out.

“Don't knock it,” Damar paddled the other cheek and admired the mark.  
“Oh come on, man. I know you're into that shit but going for that type of woman already got you into trouble with Mirem. I've got my lady tamed and that one you had--”

“Rusot, shut up--”

“She had you on a fuckin' leash man.”

Damar tossed the paddle onto Rusot's chest and backed off the bed.

“Where you going?” Rusot pouted.

“I don't know if you've figured it out yet, but talking about a man's ex-wife in the bedroom isn't exactly the brightest idea you've ever had,” Damar growled.

“Mirem was a bitch,” Rusot said to Damar's back, “I mean, she probably still is too. I tried to talk you out of that shit so many times. Remember your bachelor party? I fucking begged you not to marry her.”

“I told you to fuck off then, and you can do the same now,” Damar said, pointing to the door.

“Man, don't throw me out. I'm just speaking the truth,” Rusot edged himself off of the bed though. His shoulders slumped. He seemed to know he'd really put himself in the doghouse this time.

Damar grabbed a ratty bathrobe from his closet, shrugged it on, and knotted the belt. He went back to the bathroom to get his bottle while he waited for Rusot to pack his things and get out. He stomped around the house in a huff, sipping from his bottle, and pausing in front of the fridge to look at the drawings that were hung there with magnets. His son had made these for him over the years and Damar had always been sure to scribble a year in the corner, and to keep them. 

When he and Mirem had began to pack up their things he had made sure to put the drawings in a special folder and tuck them away. He had known that she'd have custody of their son and that he wouldn't get to see the boy much anymore and his instinct had been to hoard what memories and reminders he could that he had once been a father. 

He hardly felt like one now. 

Damar was only able to see his son every other weekend, and a week or two out of the summer, but even then he was usually so busy with work the hours he got to spend with his kid seemed to slip through his fingers and all too soon Damek was leaving with Mirem again and the house was empty.

Damar's mouth curled into an angry snarl and he suddenly swept the crayon-scrawled pictures off of the fridge door and onto the floor. He took a couple of clumsy steps back until his back hit the counter behind him. He gripped his bottle and stared at the white, blank surface of the door. 

It was so empty.


	5. A Date With Disaster

A chill seemed to creep out of the misty night and settle into Damar's bones. The cold made him ache and the dead grass crunched beneath his feet as he stepped. Through the misty rows of blank gray tombstones jutted. They were arranged so closely together than they looked like rows and rows of smoky scales on the back of a great dead dragon. He took a deep breath and picked his way through the stones as though searching for something. He pulled his thin jacket more tightly around himself to try and ward off the cold but it was too biting, too clawing, for the worn thing to do much good. Damar grumbled in annoyance. The cold was sinking all the way down to his toes and they were growing sore. His feet were beginning to feel like great heavy blocks and he was growing sluggish and tired. A terrible sense of dread crawled up and down his spine and began to twist in the pit of his stomach. What was he looking for in this icy graveyard anyway?

 

And then he saw it.

 

Damar's heart lurched.

 

He hurried as quickly as his leaden feet would allow and he came to stand on quivering legs in front of a towering headstone. White was dripping down the face of it and dripping over the engraved epitaph:

 

Here lies Corat Damar.

He died with the smell of gunpowder and marinara sauce in his hair.

Delicious, and piping hot.

Delivered to your deathstep with care.

Or your money back.

 

Guaranteed.

 

 

Damar felt like stone as he read over the haunting and humiliating words. Then he felt a drop of rain pat down right onto the center of his forehead. It was warm and he brushed his fingers through it and looked down at the smeared tips. It wasn't rain at all. His fingertips were smudged with crimson. Damar tilted his head up and watched the sky as more drops of blood began to fall and coupons for free cinnamon drizzle breadsticks began to flutter down too and they stuck to his bloody face and hair.

 

Damar woke with a little jerk as the bleating sound of his alarm punctured through the nightmare. He lifted his head from his pillow and stared straight ahead at his headboard. He groaned. He was laying naked on his belly, his arms curled up beneath his pillow, and his blankets on the floor. No wonder he had felt so cold in the dream. He was cold in reality too. He huffed through his nose and flailed an arm out towards his nightstand smacking lamely at the clock. The red digital numbers told him it was now one minute past noon.

 

“Shut up,” he muttered, finally finding the snooze button.

 

He didn't want to get up and start his day now. He was exhausted from working late at the restaurant and even later on the 'side business'. Sleep was becoming something of a luxury. His usual mild irritability that was a constant companion at work was snowballing into something greater, fueled by lack of sleep and the stress of violence being directed at him on a near regular basis these days. His employees knew to expect his usual gruffness but lately it had been turned up a couple of levels.

 

Damar planted his face back onto his pillow. It didn't smell like gunpowder but it did smell like pizza and alcohol. He supposed that was a marginally better combination.

 

He curled his toes against the fitted sheet and allowed himself to just lay there like a rotting beached creature until his alarm began its pestering bleating again.

 

He sat on the edge of his bed for a few moments hunched over his phone to check messages. There was an e-mail from Dukat with a promise that he'd stop by the store that day. Damar played through a conversation in his head in which he told Dukat to take his damn White and shove it up his ass—not that he'd ever truly say anything that harsh to his respected superior—but still, Damar was truly re-evaluating his agreement to run White for Dukat. His loyalty and need for the extra money had driven him to make a quick bargain that he hadn't thought through. A second replay of the conservation became sidetracked into rough kissing and fondling over the desk in the back room. As worked up as he was Damar would not have minded the relief at all. But he forced an end to that fantasy and pressed the morning wood he now had to the soft flesh of his inner thigh.

 

Another message from Rusot.

 

_Hey man, haven't heard from you for a few days. I said I was sorry about that shit I said about your ex. I'm still hanging out in town. Stop being so pissed at me. Asshole._

 

Damar wasn't still pissed at him. In fact he'd been regretting throwing his friend out over something so stupid and was well aware that Rusot deserved an apology from him too. He'd just been so busy the last few days that he hadn't gotten around to doing it. Damar nudged his erection again and then entered a quick reply into the little textbox on his phone.

 

_Sorry. Been busy. Lost my head that night—stupid of me. What are you still doing in town though? Don't you have a wife to go home to? Asshole._

 

Damar managed a small smile as he sent the text message.

 

 _Bros before hoes—_ came the quick reply. Damar chuckled.

 

That was it, they had made up. At least that was a good start to the day. That encouraged him to get up off the side of his bed and gather the blankets he'd kicked off in the night, pile them back onto the bed, and pad down the hall to the bathroom to take care of his morning wood.

 

He'd only just finished getting himself off while seated on the lid of the toilet and was watching his cock grow flaccid again when his phone buzzed on the counter top next to him. He spun a tail of toilet paper off the roll and used it to clean his hand and tossed it into the trashcan that was wedged between the toilet and the vanity before grabbing his phone.

 

_How about I make it up to you? Take you back to that club so you can get another eyeful of that scary bitch you liked so much. Haha._

 

Rusot again.

 

_It's a date, fuckface. Off work at 9._

 

Damar sent the message back to his friend.

 

Now there was something to look forward to.

 

But first life at Terok Northside was plodding along as usual. They continued to be short-staffed so Damar was working in the kitchen and taking the place of one of their regular cooks. Damar had been with the store for so many years and he'd done a little of everything so when he was needed to wear another hat he just did. Making pies was better in a way—at least then he didn't have to deal directly with customers.

 

When Dukat came in around 3pm he would find Damar and Rugal bent over the prep table and kneading balls of dough.

 

“No, too much,” Damar said, “it's going to be tough now.”

 

Rugal frowned down at his ball of dough.

 

“It looks okay to me.”

 

“Well, it's not,” Damar lifted Rugal's failed attempt and tossed it into a nearby trash can. He wiped his hands on his apron. It was dusted in flour and covered in hand prints.

 

“Attempting to pass on the tradition of our craft to the younger generation, I see,” Dukat crooned as he strode up to the table. He slid a pen from the breast pocket of his button up shirt and used the clicky-top end of it to prod at Damar's ball of dough.

 

“Attempting being the key word,” Damar said.

 

“Ziyal makes beautiful dough,” Dukat said.

 

“Hm,” Damar crossed his arms over his broad chest, “hey, I've been thinking...”

 

“Have you?” A slow smile curved the corners of Dukat's lips. The way he said it made it seem that he was surprised at this.

 

“Yes,” Damar carried on, “we need to talk. Uh, privately.”

 

“Oh... I see,” Dukat said, tipping his head on his long slender neck towards Damar.

 

The storage room wasn't an option since one of their employees was in there rearranging the shelves. There wasn't a private office either, only the desk at the back of the prep area, where it sat off in a little alcove. Something like that wasn't private enough to talk about one's illegal side business, however.

 

“We'll see if the bathroom is unoccupied then,” Dukat said.

 

Damar followed him through the lobby which was now almost vacant since 3pm was an odd time between lunch rush and dinner. The lobby was ransacked from lunch though: bits of food and wrappers all over the floor, one of the trashcans overflowing, the salad and pizza bars a mess as though a pack of hungry hyenas instead of human beings had descended upon the food and torn it to shreds. Some of the tables had been moved and rearranged for larger groups and Damar always wondered why people couldn't be courteous enough to put tables back into place if they had rearranged them to suit their needs. As he and Dukat passed the soda fountain Damar cringed as the sole of his tennis shoe stuck to the floor where someone had spilled their soda and no one had wheeled out the big yellow mop bucket to clean it up yet.

 

“Good, it appears to be unoccupied,” Dukat said as he approached the restroom. He held the door open for Damar and indicated that he should enter first.

 

Dukat closed the door behind them and turned the lock.

 

Damar wrinkled his nose. The restroom wasn't much better off than the lobby—squares of toilet paper were on the floor, someone had left the toilet seat up, and there were wadded brown napkins in the sink. Damar sighed.

 

“Now, what did you wish to discuss, Damar?”

 

"Maybe the competency of our current staff," Damar suggested as he plucked a cigarette butt out of the sink and flicked it onto the overflowing trash can.

 

But really the staff of Dominion's was far from his mind. He wanted to talk about his 'other' job. He wanted to tell Dukat that he'd made a mistake and he wanted out. And yet as he regarded Dukat and was face to face with the beginning of such a conversation, he wasn't sure he could go through with it. The job was dangerous, yes, but it was opening opportunities for him and providing things for himself and for his son that he hadn't been able to do on the unimpressive salary of an Assistant Manager at a pizza chain. To throw this away would be to throw away a better future for his son, and for himself. Damar pursed his lips.

 

There was also the issue of loyalty to Dukat. It was the lesser of the two, but still, it remained a solid driving factor for him. He had known Dukat for a very long time now. Dukat had been in his position when Damar had been a teenager bumbling through his first job. Beyond that they had grown to respect each other as colleagues, and they'd had a few other… encounters… over the years that had put an altogether different spin on their relationship. Nothing of the heart, but they did find themselves satisfying one another at times. When Damar had been younger Dukat had had quite the eye for him. So there was history to think about, loyalties, the ties of old friends.

 

All of these things drifted around in Damar's head.

 

"The other job," Damar said, keeping his voice low. He wasn't going to be blunt and rash and tell Dukat outright that he was going to quit. Even he wasn't convinced of that now. But he could still test the waters and see if he could get some reassurance from his old friend.

 

Dukat leaned nearer to him craning his long and slender neck. Damar thought that he looked like a cobra and he recalled a documentary he'd seen not long ago: urban legends surrounding serpents. Some said that a cobra could hypnotize its' prey, stare it into submission, and the way Dukat was looking at him now, Damar was inclined to believe it. In captivity cobras may dance to the tune of a snake charmer's pipe but in the wild it would seem that the snake would be the charmer--and Dukat was certainly one of the most charming men that Damar had ever met.

 

He swallowed thickly as Dukat seemed to consider his question with an odd smile slowly stretching his lips and bringing out the deep lines in his cheeks like triple sets of parentheses bracketing either side of his mouth. Damar was not afraid of Dukat, but the man could be intimidating. Damar squared his shoulders and pushed his chin forward. Dukat's smile grew wider.

 

"Are you losing your nerve, Damar?" the man practically cooed.

 

"No, sir," Damar said, "I… merely…"

 

"I was under the impression that you've been handling things quite well, Damar. I feel very confident in your abilities and I certainly wouldn't have offered this… position… to anyone else in my employ. Had you balked at the offer not only would you have needed to have been transferred to another chain, but perhaps let go entirely—and I would have been forced to have brought in an outsider to—"

 

"I'm not balking," Damar said.

 

"Good, good. I didn't think so, Damar. I know you to be a man of confidence. A capable fellow. We're old friends--you understand—" Dukat gripped Damar by both of his biceps, "it would absolutely _pain_ me to have to replace you--and it wouldn't be my choice at all. This would be mandated by the higher-ups in the corporation. Weyoun, for example—"

 

Damar prickled just hearing that name.

 

"I'll continue to do my job as well as I possibly can," Damar said. He had made up his mind to stick with it and yet it felt like the pit of his stomach was on fire and gnawing at itself.

 

Dukat inclined his head.

 

"That is good news, my friend. But…" Dukat flicked his eyes over Damar's face then down to his neck and broad chest where the top two buttons of his polo shirt were popped. A few tufts of curly dirty-blond, chest hair were sprouting up like tantalizing little flowers. "You seem quite tense."

 

Dukat let his tongue hit the 's' in the word 'tense' in such a way that he even _sounded_ like a snake hissing. Something about it made Damar burn in places other than his gut. He was almost inclined to accept the proposition. It wouldn't have been their first quickie in the restaurant bathroom, nor was it likely to be their last. But Damar felt the need to stay on task today.

 

"Not now," Damar said, "maybe later--after this place is cleaned up. The bathroom's filthy."

 

Dukat chuckled and the sound was sonorous and filled the small space.

 

"That's never been much of a concern of yours before--but I'll indulge your wishes. If you fill up the mop bucket and roll it here, I'll even be generous enough to get some of the cleaning under way myself. After all, I am a fair man, and even a store manager can lower himself to menial tasks from time to time in order to keep things running… smoothly."

 

Damar gave his boss a curt nod and let himself out of the bathroom.

 

A few moments later he was back with a scuffed yellow mop bucket and a collapsible 'wet floor' sign tucked under his arm. But there was no Dukat to be found. Damar gave a sigh, propped the sign in the hall outside the bathroom, lifted the mop from the soapy water, and began to clean the bathroom tiles.

 

Damar slipped out that evening before Dukat, who claimed to have been on a 'smoke break' when Damar had returned earlier to the bathroom with the mop and bucket, could have the chance to badger him about taking him up on his physical offer. Damar had other plans with another friend and fuck-buddy. Rusot was in the pizzeria parking lot waiting for Damar to get off shift. Damar met him out there and hoisted himself into the passenger's seat and tossed his visor onto the dashboard as Rusot rolled out of the parking lot.

 

"Shit day?" Rusot asked, reaching over and tousling Damar's hair. Damar swatted at his hand.

 

"Every day's a shit day when you work in customer service and barely get paid for it," Damar grumbled.

 

He pulled the overhead mirror down and began to card his fingers through his hair to try and arrange it.

 

"Just how long are you sticking around?" Damar asked Rusot as they drove. Rusot was taking Damar by his place so he could clean up and change before they headed to the Indigo Room for the night.

 

"As long as I can," Rusot said, "me and the old lady are fighting again. She's a real bitch, you know that?"

 

Damar snorted.

 

"Ina's a pleasant, if bold, woman. You're the bitch, my friend," Damar chuckled.

 

"Not tonight," Rusot answered, "I'm gonna get some tail at this Indigo place. Not yours either--a real nice piece of ass."

 

Damar cast a glance to his friend and smacked his bicep.

 

"I think I take offense to that."

 

"Fuck you."

 

Rusot was true to his word, however. Once they were at the Indigo Room and lounging around with some drinks, Rusot had eyes for only the ladies. That was no problem for Damar. After all his sights were set on the owner of the club: Lady Z. He'd been watching for her all evening but had yet to spot her. Surely she'd be easy enough to pick out of the crowd.

 

He was considering asking a server about her before the night's entertainment started up. But then he'd been distracted by a flirty red-head who was sucking suggestively on the end of a stirrer that had been in her now-empty martini glass. Damar gave her a lopsided grin and a wink.

 

She was almost in his lap by the time the entertainment started. But as soon as Damar looked up to catch a glimpse of who was on stage he was shoving her off of him and apologizing while she stormed away in a huff.

 

He hadn't expected to see Lady Z herself on the stage, but there she was.

 

She was wrapped in a black sequined dress that hugged all of her curves like a glove and seemed just barely able to contain her chest at all. It went down all the way to the floor with a high slit up one thigh. She plucked the mic from its stand in one fluid motion. Her lips were like velvet and her eyes like jewels as she cast a long sultry, glance out to her waiting audience who responded with whistles and howls. Such things seemed far too low-brow for her in Damar's opinion so he didn't shout or whistle as Rusot was doing nearby--and very loudly—despite the fact that he had expressed before that Zatara wasn't his type. He was obviously just doing it to be an ass. Instead Damar stood up and clapped for her until the first lyric of her opening song for the night swam out of her mouth like a dream wrapped in silk.

 

Damar almost forgot to sit back down.

 

He was mesmerized as she crooned in a husky sexy, voice that sent shivers down his spine. Eventually the words of her songs were lost on him and he just sat there staring at her. He was entranced by every movement that she made--the tilt of her head lulling back on her long slender, neck--her hand sliding slowly along her outer thigh and up over her hip--her long white hair silvery beneath the glittering lights and spilling over her face and shoulders like she'd just had a good roll between the sheets.

 

She sleft him breathless. Aside from the sexual attraction there was more--she was talented--and she knew how to work the stage. Damar was impressed and enamored with her.

 

 _You and just about every man in this audience, chump,_ Damar thought to himself as he popped another button on his collar.

 

A woman like that wouldn't go for a middle-aged man who was wasting his life away on cheap booze and pizza.

 

Of course she didn't need to know about his occupation or his habits, did she? Rusot had told him many times that he wasn't any good at lying, but if it came down to it, he supposed that he could. After all he wasn't looking for a long-term relationship with this woman. He just wanted a night with her.

 

But despite being sure that he was a very attractive man, and despite his usual arrogance in such matters, Damar suddenly felt somewhat inadequate in his cheap suit. He needed something nicer--an expensive brand name tailored to fit him, maybe. Not this.

 

It might have been the drinks he'd had, or his stubbornness speaking up, but he decided to go for it anyway.

 

After the show he hovered around where she was mingling with some of her patrons and when he saw his moment he slipped in and gave her his best flirtatious grin. He hoped he was wearing the one he considered to be suave rather than the one that Rusot dubbed as his 'dumb puppy' expression.

 

Lady Z rested one hand upon her chest and gave him the barest smile.

 

"Hello," she said, shifting her body language towards him a bit.

 

"And hello there," Damar said, touching his mouth before he remembered the habit. He tucked his hand into his pocket instead.

 

"Can I do something for you, darling?"

 

 _Oh, you certainly could, young lady,_ Damar thought to himself.

 

"Oh, ah… maybe you could sing a request for me next time?" he found himself asking. It really hadn't been at the forefront of his mind but what he'd been wanting to ask her--to dinner perhaps--now seemed too forward.

 

"What do you have in mind?" Lady Z asked, and reaching towards him, she slid one of her fingers down the lapel of his jacket.

 

“Do you know ‘My Daddy Rocks Me?” Damar asked, glancing down to take a look at her nimble fingers.

 

Lady Z teased him grinned at him with her ruby lips.

 

“I might.”

 

Before Damar could reply to her with some witty banter or smug comment she had turned away from him and was swaggering back to the stage. Watching her round backside sway as she moved could have hypnotized him. He imagined dancing with her as she rolled those beautiful full hips, rolled her shoulders, turned to slide the curve of her ass up against him. That sort of dancing was most likely inappropriate for a more upscale club like the Indigo Room. But a man could fantasize.

 

When she opened her mouth to sing that song for him the fantasy was blown from his mind. He was completely in tune with listening to her, watching her every move as she slithered sensuously around the stage and moved like she knew exactly what she was doing. Of course it was probably ridiculous to be so taken with her—after all she wasn’t really doing this for him, was she? She was a business owner and entertainer. She knew how to put on a show. But he couldn’t help thinking she was staring at him throughout the entire song. It certainly made him feel many things—one which was overriding the others.

 

Why shouldn't he go for it, anyway? What did he have to lose? A night with a beautiful woman would make him feel like he still had something to offer and would dull the tedious pain of showing up to work at the pizza parlor the next day. Maybe his life wouldn’t seem so dull and lower-class typical after all. Anyway, despite all of that, he did have his looks to go on. That was how he was able to pull out his confidence again, and again. Large portions of his life might have been on the rocks, or even failing, but he knew he would always be handsome, and his natural charm was a gift. _You sound like Dukat now,_ Damar thought to himself. But Dukat wasn’t as bad as people painted him to be. The man was more successful than Damar was, after all, and he had a good sense for business. He just didn’t know when to keep his pants on.

 

Damar clapped enthusiastically for Zatara as she stepped down from the stage.

 

“It was great! I could watch and listen to you all night long,” Damar said.

 

“I’m sure you could,” Lady Z said, flashing her white teeth at him.

 

“I’d love to buy you a drink,” Damar said, “or… I guess you don’t need a man to buy you a drink in your own bar. Maybe dinner instead.”

 

“I really don’t need a man to buy me anything,” Lady Z said, but she gave him a small smile. Somehow it was both vicious, and reassuring. “But I might like it. If you’re still here at closing time we’ll talk about it.”

 

“I’ll be here,” Damar said. He gave her his best sizzling gaze and pouty lip, and she gave him a wink.

 

“Alright, meet me in the back of the building, and don't try anything funny,” Zatara said.

 

“I wouldn't dare,” Damar meant it—he had visions of her stabbing the heel of one her shoes through his eyeball, or pulling a daggar out of... somewhere... and having no qualms at all about wedging it in between his ribs should he trying something 'funny'. For some reason he was certain these were not exaggerations—she gave off an air that she could stab a man and feel not a shred of remorse for it. Yet this was no deterrent for him.

 

Damar hung around the bar loafing and watching from a distance as Rusot was shot down by woman after woman. Finally near closing time he left with someone—which was not particularly great for Damar since Rusot had been his ride. The doofus was probably too drunk to have remembered that he had his “best friend” in tow. Some best friend Rusot was. But the people were nearly gone, the bar was being wiped down, and the lights in the Indigo Room were going out one by one.

 

Damar exited with the last of the crowd and hung around the back of the building. He leaned against the bricks and squinted up at the moon which was nearly full in the inky sky. The view would have been prettier if not for the streetlamp in his line of sight, cascading a stream of fake yellow light down onto the pavement. Moths fluttered like floating glowing, leaves on a gentle breeze under the beam and Damar watched them. He thought about the people who would be coming out at this time of night—street people—the people who he would deliver White to. He probably should have done a round of deliveries tonight but he was expecting Lady Z and for her the damned Jem'Hadar could just wait.

 

Damar's phone vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out to look at the little square of bright screen.

 

It was Rusot with a text message: “Got lukcy. Sry dude cal l a cab. Hoes befre bros.”

 

Damar rolled his eyes and put his phone on silent before placing it back in the inner pocket of his blazer.

 

Just then he heard the clicking of heels on pavement and turned to see Lady Z round the corner.

 

“Oh! There you are. I thought maybe you'd stood me up. I was just heading to my car. But you did stay after all,” she grinned.

 

“Of course I did. When I say something, I mean it. So, are you up for grabbing a bite?” Damar asked, the words out before he could figure out how they'd get there. It would be embarrassing to ask her for a ride, or to have to get a cab for him to meet her there. This was another instance where he got himself into trouble by speaking before thinking. But he was sure there was a little diner down at the corner of the block. “It's a nice mild night, we could walk to the end of the block, if those heels aren't killing your feet.”

 

“I was born with stilettos on,” Lady Z said, flipping a long strand of pure white hair over her shoulder. “I've been inside my business all day. A walk actually sounds wonderful, and it is a nice night.”

 

They made their way around to the front of the building. With the lights off and the glowing indigo sign put to bed for the night the building looked like a slumbering beast with a blanket of pavement all around it. They headed across the parking lot, over the grass that was beginning to brown as fall tip-toed in, and onto the sidewalk. Lady Z’s heels clicked over the concrete and cracks as they walked towards the corner.

 

“It’s too bad I couldn’t take you for a spin in my Porsche,” Damar said, “but I let my buddy take it for the night. He’s been dying to for a long time and I finally caved.”

 

“Ooh,” Zatara cooed, “I’d love that. There are few things hotter than a sexy car.”

 

“A sexy woman,” Damar said, and he was pleased with the grin he received for it.

 

“You’re very sure of yourself, you know. I bet you’re an Aries,” Lady Z said.

 

“Uh-oh. Are our signs incompatible?” Damar lifted an eyebrow at her. “You know, I’m not really sure I believe in that stuff anyway.”

 

“Oh, darling, we’d be on fire,” Lady Z replied with a chuckle.

 

“Then maybe there’s some truth to it after all.”

 

Lady Z laughed again.

 

“Not when I’ve only just met you. You’re getting ahead of yourself. You don’t even know my name,” her eyes twinkled playfully at him as though him not knowing her name was in a way an entertaining part of ‘the game’.

 

“You could tell me,” Damar said as they crossed the street. The diner across the way gave a bright neon glow. It was as though a massive nightlight had descended from space and settled right down onto the corner—a beacon of pancake stacks, milkshakes, and grease to the hungry creatures of the night. Damar wished he could take her somewhere more ‘worthy’ of her (or the dream he had made of her in his head) but since he had no choice but travel on foot, this would have to do.

 

“I could,” Lady Z said, “tell me yours first, and I’ll consider it.”

 

She opened the door to the diner before Damar could open it for her. Soon they were seated at a little table and they could look out at the dark street as a gentle rain began pat against the windows and glisten on the streets.

 

“It’s Corat Damar,” he said, and then wondered if he shouldn’t have given her a different name. That would certainly be a bad way to start things off, but if she was smart—and he could tell she was brilliant—she could easily look him up and figure out that he was unimpressive. It wasn’t like him to hide like this though so he supposed he should just tell her this much at least. Maybe his divorce had changed him into a man who was more reluctant expose his real self, or maybe his ‘side job’ was causing him to grow more paranoid. Whichever it was he hoped that she wouldn’t want to check up on him any time soon.

 

“A very strong sounding name,” she mused, “and quite distinct. I’ve heard the name Damar around before, but Corat sounds different. Hm… are you related to the Damar who owns that little art shop down town? She makes lovely ceramic pieces.”

 

“My sister,” Damar confirmed, “a bit of a hippie, but I adore her.”

 

They were seated at their table and handed their menus. Damar tried his best to ignore the brown rings decorating the tabletop from either coffee or tea stains.

 

“What kind of wine would you recommend I order with my caviar?” Lady Z teased over the top of her plastic menu.

 

“If only we could order wine, I’d buy the best bottle in the house,” he said, turning the charm on. Of course he’d love to in some imaginary world where he was a wealthy man but in this realm he was not. “But I hear the coffee’s decent.”

 

“I’m not much of a coffee drinker, but I do relate to being hot and bitter.”

 

“No sugar or cream?”

 

“Not on the first date at least,” Lady Z grinned at him again and placed her menu down onto the table. She must have already selected what she planned to order.

 

Damar wasn’t even hungry but would order something just to buy time to entertain her. He was already captivated by her beauty and her sharp wit—the fact that it had a bit of a dark tint to it, and a little bit of a naughty twist at other times, was right up his alley. Dukat had even chastised him a time or two for employing too much of his dark humor and sarcasm during work. He had said that it wasn’t very ‘customer friendly’. Damar had made some sort of comment about making sure to smile next time he handed a customer a box of triple bypass pizza. What was that, Damar? A triple meat pie, sir.

 

Their orders were placed and Damar felt a twinge of guilt as he watched the exhausted looking waiter saunter back to the kitchen to deliver the order to the cook. He was certain that Lady Z would eventually ask him the dreaded quandary “what do you do?” and while he could opt to answer it with sarcasm ‘as little as I can’, or ‘hopefully you’, (probably not the best route to go) he would in all likelihood need to tell her about his job. His shoulders wanted to slump at that thought but he didn’t allow it. He couldn’t even call his work at Dominion’s pizza a proper career. Lately he had sent out a few resumes thinking it might well be time for him to move on from Dominion’s and try to improve his standing—but his work history was rather unimpressive aside from the loyalty he had shown working away years of his life for Dominion’s—previously Terok Northside. Not only that but there was now the added problem of his little ‘side job’ that he had picked up.

 

These thoughts tumbled around the back of his mind while he and Lady Z continued to chatter. They seemed to have been made to banter with one another. They were well matched for conversation. Her beautiful ruby lips were beginning to distract Damar into daydreaming about how they’d feel wrapped around his—Well. He decided to distract himself from that line of thought by asking Lady Z a very important question that had yet to be answered.

 

“So, hot and bitter woman, you know my name now. Has that earned me the privilege of learning yours?” Damar rested his elbows on the table, fisted his hands together, and propped his chin up and gazed at her from across the formica table top between them. She stared back at him with an expression that gave nothing away above the peaks of the ketchup and mustard bottle that were slotted into a little metal container right in the middle of the table.

 

“Oh, alright then. But I must tell you I don’t give out my information to just anyone. What you may learn here is confidential,” she reached over the tops of the condiments and pressed the tip of her nail gently to the center of Damar’s chin. It was as though without asking at all she was speaking one word to him: _understand?_ But it was more of a command than a question. Her eyes lingered on his and they drew his compliance from him.

 

“Of course,” he said. He could very well imagine giving her a more proper answer: _yes, my lady,_ under other circumstances. That, however, was best not to be thought about in a grubby little diner with a woman you had only just met.

 

“My name is Zatara Kalces,” she said at last, lifting her fingertip away from him.

 

“Zatara,” Damar repeated, letting each letter and sound dance over his tongue and inside of his ears. “A beautiful name, and that’s not flattery—that’s true. That sounds like the type of name I’d hear in Cardassia Heights. Are you from there?”

 

“Yes, and no,” Zatara said, and then she did not elaborate, but instead she shifted the questioning to him. “But given your name I’d say you sound like you’re from that part of this little world too. So, Corat, what do you do for a living?”

 

Damar blinked a couple of times to clear his mind and took a sip of water before answering.

 

“Business, management, you know,” he said.

 

“I do know,” Zatara said, “I own my club after all. It takes a lot of time and work but I enjoy being _in charge_.”

 

That sent a little shiver quivering up and down Damar’s spine but he did his best not to show it. The fact that she liked to be in charge was obvious just by the way she carried herself, and by the way she spoke—but hearing her say it aloud like that, putting the emphasis on certain words… she _wanted_ him to know it. But then she would back off and play coy when he flirted with her. She was like a spider sitting prettily on her web and playing with him—the fly—but right now he quite enjoyed being caught in her web. He wasn’t even squirming to try and break free.

 

Their banter continued while they waited and their food. They hardly missed a beat in their conversation when their orders were placed down in front of them: Damar with pot roast and vegetables that looked like it had been dumped out of a can, Zatara with something that looked better—at least by a little bit—and a basket of warm rolls and plastic cups of butter between them next to the condiments caddie as though they were going to become close friends. Perhaps he and Zatara would too.

 

He took a hesitant bite of his food while Zatara spoke of an act she was excited to get in at her club soon. Her main competition, Quarks, wasn’t as upscale as her place was but they still battled at times and sense he had hired some new crooner for his lounge area he was the talk of the town.

 

“Vic Fontaine,” Damar provided, “I haven’t seen him, but I’ve heard of him. Maybe this will do in my chances with you, but I’ll admit that I’ve been known to visit Quark’s on occasion. Of course your place is far superior. You know, maybe you should see about getting some local spirits in at your place. People like local favorites… like the yamok sauce. This stuff doesn’t taste great,” Damar said, using his fork to motion down to his plate, “any place worth serving the public in Cardassia Heights or the surrounding areas must have yamok in the kitchen.”

 

Zatara chuckled, and she leaned forward and whispered to Damar like they were plotting something.

 

“And is this place worth serving the public?”

 

“Only if the public is drunk,” Damar whispered back, and they chuckled.

 

After waving over their server and acquiring a bottle of yamok sauce, and then liberally dousing his ‘meal’ with it, Damar was better able to enjoy it. He certainly wouldn’t order it again, and if by some miraculous twist of fate Zatara saw fit to allow him a second date, he would certainly take her somewhere nicer than this. But he noted the small smile she was wearing and how her stiff posture had even eased a bit. The food wasn’t much, but she seemed to be enjoying the company at least—or so Damar could tell himself. His ego decided to support that notion whole-heartedly.

 

While they conversed and ate the pleasant night rain shower outside had begun to grow more insistent. The rain was hitting the glass harder now, blowing at an angle, and now and then the glow of distant lightening would pulse and throb.

 

“If this doesn’t calm down we’re going to have to walk back to the club in this, you know. I left my ride there,” Zatara said.

 

“You can borrow my jacket,” Damar offered, “or we could wait it out.”

 

It was already late but the diner was open all night—but then again the storm might be up for an all-nighter, too. Damar glanced down at their empty plates. Despite the taste of the food they had both managed to finish it. Damar had been raised not to waste.

 

“I hear the pie here actually is very good,” he said, “why don’t we have some dessert while we wait to see if the rain will let up? I don’t usually, but why not.”

 

“Hmm, I don’t know. I’m a bit of a public figure, at least in my own club, and I’ve got to look good in those slinky dresses so I can get men like you to take me out to ritzy places like this,” Zatara smirked.

 

“Are you kidding? You’ve got an amazing figure. I… may have glanced,” Damar said, feigning innocence.

 

Zatara rolled her eyes.

 

“Glanced,” she repeated, giving an inflection to the word that would indicate it would have been flanked by quotation marks had it been written out, “of course you have. Hmm. Oh, alright, but only if they have chocolate pie. I don't like fruit pies.”

 

“We could share a slice,” Damar suggested.

 

Zatara tilted her head at him with a very serious expression.

 

“Mr. Damar, I am not in the habit of sharing much of my personal information, as you’ve learned, but I am even less in the habit of sharing my food,” she said, “I might complain about it going to my hips, but it’s mine.”

 

Damar chuckled.

 

“Alright, it’s yours then.”

 

Zatara ordered chocolate while Damar ordered a key lime on the grounds that it reminded him of a margarita.

 

“You like your spirits, don’t you,” Zatara commented.

 

“I do, but it’s not a problem,” he said, which really was another lie—but at least that was a lie that he was attempting to tame as of lately. “Attempting” being the key word.

 

Outside the wind was picking up rather than dying down. The lightening was nearer and more frequent too, and now the thunder was rolling and growling. It sounded as though there was an angry mama bear standing on the street corner and defending her cubs with bone-rattling roars from people who were splashing by the diner in their cars. They had only started in on their slices of pie when a terrific crack of lightening shook the building. There was an explosion and a rupture of sparks from the transformer at the street corner. The diner went black.

 

“Damn,” Zatara whispered in the sudden darkness, “that probably knocked out the power to the club too. At the speed public services get around to doing anything in this city, I might lose a weeks worth of business,” she grumbled.

 

Obviously that was an exaggeration, but still, these were not exactly the types of sparks that Damar had hoped would fly this night. He considered making a joke in that direction but decided against it after all.

 

“Well, we can still finish our pie. Here,” he turned the flashlight function on for his smartphone and propped it up against the condiment caddie. It spilled enough of a glow out onto the table that they could see their pie and the lower halves of their faces—just enough for functional eating. Damar began to laugh. “It’s not exactly dining by candlelight, is it?”

 

“There’s probably an app for that, I imagine,” Zatara commented, “but actual candles would be more romantic than the light of an IPhone, if you’re into that sappy stuff.”

 

“I am, and I’m into you,” Damar said, narrowing his gaze to a warm smolder that he wasn’t quite sure she could see in the dark—but maybe she could feel it.

 

“Then we’re both on the same page,” Zatara said, “I’m into myself, too.”

 

“You should try a bit of my key lime. It’s not really like a fruit pie, is it? It’s more like a tart pudding. I’ll cut some off with a spoon so I can make sure not to injure you in the darkness with a fork.”

 

“That would be preferable,” Zatara said.

 

She leaned forward a bit, her pale form sliding out from the shadows, and basked in the light of the IPhone more fully now, she seemed to glow like a spirit that had come down from the heavens to visit him. He was certain it was a ridiculous thought to have but seeing her like that made him feel inspired to write some poetry—thinking back to high school literature (the college version was a bit of a blur) it made sense to him now why Poe spent so much time writing about the mysterious _Lenore_ in several of his works. When a man was ensnared by a woman even her shadow falling upon him could transport him to places he had never known to be in existence before.

 

Damar lifted the spoonful of key lime towards her, half hypnotized by her ghostlike form. But the power of the smartphone suddenly failed him, and the light flashed off, leaving them in the darkness.

 

Zatara gave a little yelp.

 

“Shit!” Damar hissed, “what’s the matter?”

 

“It’s in my nose!” Zatara cried, and then she began to laugh, “and I can’t see where the napkin holder is!”

 

“You’re not supposed to snort it!” Damar teased, as he tried to recall if there had been a napkin dispenser on their table at all.

 

“It was next to the window,” Zatara said, as if she could read him, “wait—there. There’s the glint of glass…” she was feeling around for it. “There. I have a photographic memory. I don’t need light to see, unlike some people, who go into hysterics and forget where a human mouth is located.”

 

Damar could hear the subtle rustle of harsh paper napkins as Zatara cleaned herself up. She may have been berating him in a way but it was clearly playful and this was the sort of banter Damar enjoyed with a partner anyway. If they couldn't tease, and pick on one another for flirting, there was really no point to it, he thought. A little conflict made things fun.

 

“I may never know how your pie tastes, Corat, but it smells like the cleaner I use in my kitchen. I think I’ll allow you to enjoy it instead if you’re better at finding your mouth in the dark than finding mine.”

 

“Hey, I’m good at finding _some_ things in the dark,” Damar said, sliding out of his booth, “come on, we should probably go. I’m sure the staff will want to close now that power’s gone.”

 

“What _things_?” Zatara asked, as she slid out of her booth too. Damar could see her then because another flash of lightening allowed him to catch a glimpse.

 

Her strange and yet beautiful purple eyes flashed briefly at him and then they were gone again. It was as though she was commanding even the lightening to be on her side, to help her toy with him—Damar imagined fucking her now over the table. He raked his teeth over his lower lip. _Not very gentlemanly, Corat,_ he reminded himself. _At least wait until you're home and you can fantasize with your hand down your pants._

 

Like he had promised he loaned her his jacket once they were outside under the awning. With the way the rain was blowing the awning afforded them little protection. Damar stood like a shield in her way as he helped her drape his jacket over her head, and then they hurried for the club as quickly as they could, with Zatara’s heels splashing and the rain coming down on Damar’s head and making him feel blissfully cool—it may have been inconvenient but was just what he needed.

 

They made it back to the parking lot of the club without any slips, lightning strikes, or other mishaps. A spoonful of dessert in the nose seemed to be the extent of the nights injuries. He said goodbye to her at her car, and she offered him a ride home as she ducked in, and handed his wet coat back to him. But he really didn’t want her to see his house—yet she stared up at him from the glow of her dashboard gadgets and _demanded_ that he get in the car.

 

“I will _not_ leave you in the rain waiting for a cab. Get in. I’ll only say it once—and if you still refuse, then I will leave you to the demise of your own stupidity, and the onset of pneumonia.”

 

How could he say no to that?

 

Besides, her car was almost as delicious as she was. The combination of Zatara, car, and command, was just a triple threat that he could not put off a second time.

 

He’d noticed the car sitting like a gift from the gods beneath the streetlamps before they’d left for the diner, and before the rain had come. It was a Maserati Grandturismo convertible and it was a beautiful deep purple that only could have been a custom paint job. He sat his blazer dry-side down on the leather seat before carefully scooting inside. He wouldn’t want to do anything to defile such a beauty—the car, not the woman. He wanted to do plenty of things to her. _Cool down, Corat,_ he reminded himself again. The cool rain had only done enough until he’d gotten into the car, and now the car was exciting him all over again.

 

Damar gave her Dukat’s address to plug into her GPS. He spent the rest of the ride gushing over her car. Luckily she seemed to be as taken with her ride as he was and they talked about where she’d gotten it from, how long she’d had it, about the custom paint job, and then Damar talked about building his car. At last they pulled up in front of a beautiful home in one of the top locations in Cardassia Heights. It would look far better to say goodnight to Zatara in front of that house rather than his own. Yet again he had flipped-flopped from being forward with her, which was his nature, to hiding things—to a rather great extent now.

 

“Do you think I could find your mouth in the dark for a kiss?” he teased as they sat at the curb in front of ‘his’ beautiful house. Luckily at this time of night there were no lights in the windows, and no silhouettes moving around behind drawn shades to give away his lie.

 

“Not tonight,” Zatara said in a very final decree that he was not even getting the barest shred of any tonight. But then she smiled and swept her finger along the curve of her leather steering wheel. “But on the next date, perhaps. And... there are other places suitable for kissing.”

 

 _There certainly are,_ Damar thought to himself, thinking about the landscape of what might lie beneath her silk dress. She held her hand out to him and Damar took it, bowed his head, and placed a kiss to one of her knuckles. Then he exited the car and made his way up the driveway and towards ‘his’ house. He only had to hope now that Zatara would drive off and leave him be without seeing to it that he got into the house alright. He’d have to wake Dukat to let him in, or he supposed he could stay outside and call a cab, and neither Dukat nor Zatara would be any wiser about his shenanigans. However, Zatara was lingering at the curb, polite enough to make sure he was inside for the night.

 

Just as he was wondering if he could possibly pick the lock (no, he’d most likely set off an alarm), he recalled that he still had a key to Dukat’s home from over the summer when he’d done pet sitting for his boss. The man had asked him to do it to save money. On the one hand Dukat was too cheap to board his family pets, on the other he flaunted himself to the point of a huge house in _this_ neighborhood that made him look great but most likely had him swimming in debt—and that vacation to some fancy-pants exclusive resort. At least Damar had been able to enjoy a bottle of Dukat’s expensive wine in his hot tub. The experience of pet sitting for Skrain Dukat had also left Damar, now that he recalled, with the code to the alarm system unless Dukat had been paranoid enough to have changed the code since Damar’s stay.

 

Knowing his boss he would have changed it—but now Damar would just have to risk it.

 

He entered the code and was grateful for the little beep that signaled it was disabled, and he slipped the key into the lock, and then he was into the house and watching as Zatara drove off into the night.

No sooner had she gone, and he had breathed a sigh of relief, than he had stepped back onto a squeaky floorboard and then suddenly the Dukat family hounds were flying down the stairs in a cacophony of bows and yows. The brindled beasts knocked him to the floor but as soon as they caught his familiar scent the scraping paws became gentle, the barks turned to snuffling, and Damar had a face full of slimy pink tongues slurping the raindrops from his skin.

 

“Whose there!” came Dukat’s voice as the man blundered down the stairs, “Ira, Bear, get down,” Dukat commanded, calling the dogs off.

 

The dogs pattered away back up the stairs. Damar lay sprawled on the floor staring up at Dukat who had a baseball bat in his hand.

 

“You’re lucky they got to you before I did. I would have swung first and asked questions later—and this is my lucky bat. I wouldn’t have missed, Damar,” Dukat extended his hand and Damar took it to help himself up.

 

“How much of a lucky bat can it be? That’s the same one you used in our softball playoffs against Deep Dish 9… and we still lost. Badly,” Damar said, brushing some stray dog hair off of his shirt.

 

“Don’t remind me—but do enlighten me as to why you’re in my home, uninvited, at an ungodly hour?” Dukat took a few paces to the door and locked everything up and reset the alarm with a little glare over his shoulder at Damar. No doubt the code would be changed in the morning. But then Dukat’s glare became concern. “Is this about… _the business_?” Dukat hissed, craning his long neck.

 

Damar knew he was not referring to the pizza business.

 

“No, no, there’s nothing wrong there that I’m aware of. It was ah… well. I had a date, Rusot took my ride, she wanted to give me a ride home because of the storm, and I uh…”

 

“I see,” Dukat said, “well, you’re on early shift tomorrow, so you’d better stay here and get a few hours of sleep rather than calling a cab home from here. I’m certainly not going to give you a ride home at this hour—and give me that copy of my house key back!”

 

After fighting to get the key off the ring it was returned to its' rightful owner. There would be no more sneaking into Dukat’s place after dark. Dukat provided one pillow, one blanket, and one sofa. No dry clothes were offered but Dukat was perturbed at having been woken up so Damar supposed he was lucky that he wasn’t sleeping outside in the rain.

 

He was soon curled up on the couch and thinking of Zatara and imaging all sorts of fantasies about her, some benign, and others which had him rock hard and contemplating a jerk in the bathroom. But instead his sleepiness and the knowledge that he had to be at least a little alert to work the next day won out over his desire. He fell asleep with Ira sleeping beneath the coffee table while Bear was curled up at his feet using Damar’s ass as a pillow, and snoring gently.

 


End file.
